


nevermind the end

by slexenskee (Sambomaster)



Series: HOME / [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also a serious amount of comeplay, Comeplay, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Porn With Plot, Size Kink, like I'm not kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:58:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 67,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sambomaster/pseuds/slexenskee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meanwhile, Harry and Voldemort have a lot of sex. </p><p>this started out as serious non-con porn and then somehow ended up with hardcore feels and a possible existential crisis. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. want me

**Author's Note:**

> tbh I just really wanted to get this up so I could stop thinking about it - totally unedited raw text, rambling, grammatical errors etc. maybe one day i'll come back and do something with this.. lol so expect a lot of errors - also, wip that may or may not ever be finished
> 
> warnings at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh I just really wanted to get this up so I could stop thinking about it - totally unedited raw text, rambling, grammatical errors etc. maybe one day i'll come back and do something with this.. lol so expect a lot of errors - also, wip that may or may not ever be finished
> 
> warnings at the end.

 

 

 

I feel like some second rate married couple, shifted to opposite sides of the bed and drowning in post-sex silence.

 

Not that I imagined Voldemort to talk. But neither did I imagine him to be the kind to sit in bed and look over papers. He’s got some sort of long parchment that he seems uncannily interested in, so perhaps he won’t take me again tonight. My arse already feels like it’s been drilled by some sort of construction machine, and the sticky sensation of Voldemort’s seed dripping out of me leaves me uncomfortable and unable to find sleep.

 

I drift off eventually.

 

He wakes me at precisely five thirty, giving me a nasty little electric jolt. He’s throwing me out, just in time for school, and I stumble hastily to my feet only to fall once my weight is placed on them. The bottom half of my body is jelly and my arse has been thoroughly abused.

 

I catch the dark lord looking satisfied by his handiwork out of the corner of my eye, but ignore him. He can fuck off and die for all I care—I have the next twelve hours or so to live my life without him.

 

The satisfied look dies when he comes to this obvious conclusion as well, leaving something dark and angry as I portkey back to school.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

He doesn’t make love, he fucks. And its ruthless. And never straight forward, no—he has to play with his food. Today, or tonight (I don’t really know), my hands are tied above my head to the ceiling and I’m bent over against his desk.

 

He admires me for a moment, or perhaps just what he’s done to me, and the paddle stills in his hand.

 

My arse is literally on fire. It’s burning red from what I can see from my reflection, but it’s easier to ignore if I don’t look.

 

He’s fucked me once already, long and hard, perhaps for more then an hour. It ends with him coming inside me—his favorite way to end things—leaving the head of his cock poised right outside my entrance, before pulling out so that I can feel his seed dripping out of me. Some days he leaves me like that, staring blankly at the far wall, hands tied, looking completely and totally fucked out, for anyone who walks in the door to see. Maybe it’s my helplessness that gets him off the most. Honestly trying to figure out his motivations is really tiring; I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any.

 

He has two modes; a violently, murderous rage that he takes out through unforgiveables and dark curses, and a violently murderous rage that he takes out on me through… I don’t even know. Kinky and occasionally bizarre sex.

 

Lucius walked in once.

 

The look of surprise on his face was masked the moment the Dark Lord intoned that he was allowed a go at me as well. I felt about as surprised as Malfoy looked at this.

Voldemort never shares me; ever. He’ll let his followers touch me from time to time, but never anything close to this. So either Malfoy has done something very good, or I’ve done something very bad. Considering I haven’t done much since I got here but lay here and make up shapes on the ceiling, I’m leaning towards the former.

 

Still, the Malfoy senior was all to eager to whip his prick out, and it was the first time I’d ever tasted the bitter release of Malfoy sperm. That’s not to say that _all_ sperm wasn’t bitter and salty and disgusting, but just the fact that it was Malfoy made it all the worse.

 

After that the pureblood took the time to peruse me, first, giving my arse a go with the paddle, probably just to try and make me cry out, or to trigger another slow trickle of Tom’s cum to come out of me. Voldemort cuts that off really quick though, when it becomes apparent that he’s enjoying it far too much and I’m hating it far too little. Or maybe the sight of anyone else but him even spanking me is crossing the line. Who knows.

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

He comes inside again and it fills me up to the brim, making my insides churn with the heat. He’s never struck me as an exhibitionist so I know that he does this only for the gratification of seeing my humiliation afterwards. It’s both pain and pleasure to see Bellatrix’s contorted face. I know she wants to be the one getting screwed, regardless of if it’s in front of everyone, but she’s also satisfied with hearing my wails and pleads for stopping—even if they’re half-hearted at best, downright droning at worst. Being engaged in the dark lord’s sick fantasies is tough shit, okay. There’s only so many times he can do this to me before it gets repetitive.

 

Not that I would dare to ever tell him this. I can think of like, five worse things he could pull then this; best to let him just assume I still find it horribly humiliating. I mean, it sucks, and it _is_ humiliating, but I’ve—I don’t know. Gotten used to it.

 

Bellatrix doesn’t know it’s me, of course; his little game would be up if his followers knew. My face is a distorted in a glamour vague enough to hide my more obvious features, masking it all with a generic, boyish look.

 

They’re jeering and laughing and pointing towards me, but I’m exhausted and my head lolls on his shoulder. It’s not bony. He must be wearing his Tom Riddle face, then. His cock, no longer impossibly enormous but still quite a huge girth, remains sheathed inside me, and occasionally he jerks it in just to hear me gasp in pain.

 

He knows I hate this position the most. He doesn’t know why though and I refuse to tell him.

 

Maybe one day I’ll confess that every humiliation he’s done to me will never be as bad as what’s already been done to me before; how this was Vernon’s favorite position to describe to me, one he would explain in every intimate detail.

 

I’ll let him keep his smugness for now, if only to relish in my own smugness when I finally reveal all this to him.

 

He must be feeling especially magnanimous today, because he sprawls me out on all fours, and gives his Death Eaters a go. Never full intercourse, because he’d never share his crowned jewel, but their fingers test me like merchandise. They don’t seem to mind all the wetness, even as it pours out of me seemingly unendingly. There’s got to be at least five or six at once and I squirm at the awful feeling—squirm right onto Lucius Malfoy’s prick.

 

I wonder what Draco would think, to see his father shove his cock up my mouth. Appalled, most likely. Maybe a little smug. He’s Voldemort’s favorite, so of course he get’s more leeway then the others. The dark lord doesn’t seem to mind sharing this small service of mine, but he is not amused at all when Lucius pulls out and comes over my face. This is apparently an indulgence only meant for him.

 

I almost feel a little vindictive when I see the Malfoy senior scream on the floor under a crucio. Stupid Malfoy, tricks are for kids. No but seriously, there is a very fine line between the Dark Lord’s obsession with humiliating me, and the Dark Lord’s obsession with owning me. There’s only so much he’ll let his followers do to get a rise out of me, because he is a possessive fuck and the very idea of me doing this for anyone else but him is enough for him to start throwing out unforgiveables.

 

And they all know it too, jumping the fuck away from me as if their lives depended on it—which might actually not be all that much of an exaggeration, considering Voldemort’s mercurial moods and his utterly all-consuming obsession of being the only one to have me.

 

They leave pretty fucking quick after that, but I’m not all that concerned by it. I feel so stretched that perhaps if Voldemort took me now, I wouldn’t be in gut wrenching pain. I doubt it, though. Nothing could ever prepare me properly for that cock.

 

“It’s almost morning.” I croak out, though I know he’s aware. He’ll have to return me—the greatest displeasure of them all.

 

He also doesn’t like me reminding him. There’s a brewing, volcanic anger in his eyes as he drawls, “Then you’d better get to work, no?”

 

I look up at him sharply, shaking and covered in come—his come.

 

Get to—oh. Right.

 

I lick off his softened cock, cleaning it thoroughly until it’s glistening with my saliva. My throat is dry and my mouth tastes like his semen—and just him, in general. Which is annoying, but will be solved in a minute or two when I cast a cleaning charm and brush my teeth, and rinse it out with mouth wash; or rubbing alcohol, which would get the job done and have the added bonus of maybe killing me.

 

I’d off myself just to come back as a ghost and see his explosively violent expression when he realizes I’m no longer around to torment.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

It’s Saturday, a Hogsmeade weekend, and no one’s going to be looking for me. He knows this, which is why I’m here in his office, bent over his desk. He’s not even in the room, though. He doesn’t need to be, because I’m sure he’s aware that I’m already past sanity and moaning like a wonton whore. The worst part is knowing I’m not chained, knowing there’s no physical reason why I couldn’t just rip this snake out of me and leave the room. But I know the consequences of that aren’t worth the relief it’ll give now.

 

I learned very, very quickly that obedience is better than the alternative. I’d prefer it like this; he’s very predictable that way. You do what he wants and he won’t punish you. You do what he don’t wants and he will. Of course, some times what he wants feels like punishment anyway.

 

It’s a small, squirming piece of metal, and it pumps me with a purpose of making me incoherent in mindless pleasure. It does its job well.

 

There’s so much sick humiliation in knowing I’m getting off on this, that this conjured metal snake is making my prick purple with need. He’s put that nasty spell on me—so I won’t come until he wants me to. So I’ll beg him. Hell, even then he probably won’t let me. He pulls this possessive, dominating shit almost every night, but I genuinely cannot remember the last time I got off on it.

 

He comes in eventually, maybe after an hour or two, but doesn’t take me immediately. He stands in front of me and I raise my head, panting and flushed and squirming on the snake pushing it’s way inside me. I know what he wants, and I deftly find the fastenings and pull out his dick, which lays heavy and hot in my hands. I crawl onto the desk to get better leverage, and he grips the back of my head and rams himself into my mouth. He’s got a good four inches on Malfoy—hell, he may even give my wand a run for it’s money—and the tip of his cock is in the back of my throat. My eyes burn, but I bob up and down, trying to get him off as quick as possible. I am still kind of in awe that this thing manages to fit it’s way inside me every single time, and I’m not dead yet.

 

Finally my eyes really start to burn, and I feel sweet, sweet relief as tears start to spill in earnest. Voldemort seizes up the moment he sees them; it’s only a matter of time until he can’t take the sight of them without losing it. The hand on my head fists into my hair, driving me back down—yep. There it goes.

 

He pulls back into the cavern of my mouth and comes, and I milk his cock for as much as I’m worth. I’ve gotten used to the taste of his essence; I don’t even feel the need to puke at the very taste of it. I realize with a sickening feeling that I might even be starting to like the taste of it. At the very least, it tastes like… nothing.

 

What I can’t swallow ends up dripping out of my mouth, and I try to gasp around it for breath. He dispels the snake—finally, but walks around to position himself in its place.

 

It’s an entire day’s worth of fucking, and I’m ready to pass out by the end of it. My legs are immobile, my arse is on fire. He must be aware, because he’s allowed me to lay there in god knows what kind of bodily fluids, finding sleep on his desk.

 

I don’t really care; sleep is sleep, no matter where you get it.

 

Also, I take great vindictive pleasure in getting all of the sticky mess on every single one of his papers. I hope they were really important.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I shouldn’t have ever thought to myself that I could come to enjoy—or even tolerate anything about him.

 

Maybe he Legillimized me, or perhaps he’s just intuitive, but today I have had nothing to eat but come. I hadn’t had dinner that evening because I was already late, and by the middle of the morning I was ready to kill myself for that small grievance. I’d faced hunger before, but that doesn’t mean I’d voluntarily want to do it again. 

 

When I eventually forced myself to enter his study he pushed me to my knees under his desk, and I broke the sound barrier pulling his cock out and stuffing it into my mouth. The sooner this is over the better—I am fucking hungry, man. And even as I mechanically go through all the motions he likes, I find my thoughts drifting to a tuna sandwich. Of all the things. I don’t even _like_ tuna, but all Ron wanted to talk about today was provolone cheese and tuna fish. Maybe it like, subliminally caught it my mind.

 

Maybe he had planned it out, but his followers had come to report to him as I sucked him off beneath his desk. This was annoying, because he shoved me into the small space beneath it and I had to somehow work in the miniscule space. I switch back to more relevant thoughts: do I really want tuna? How about pumpkin pie or something?

 

For some incredible reason, I finally decide that what I’m really craving is toast. Just toast.

 

I felt him pulse against my mouth, and I opened wide for his first load, but he pulled me away and conjured a silver bowl. He released himself into it, and I stared in morbid fascination and a bit of disgust. How could so much end up inside me all the time?

 

As if the whole ordeal, and whatever about it he gets off on from it—the humiliation of it, I suppose, or maybe just my submissiveness—wasn’t enough for him, he put the bowl on the ground and told me to lap it up like a good boy.

 

That always gets to me, and he fucking knows it, a grandiloquent look of satisfaction working it’s way onto his face as I grimace. Little does he know it actually has nothing to do with him at all; Uncle Vernon used to call me that.

 

I knelt beside his desk and lapped it up dutifully, incredibly annoyed because it is far harder than I had assumed; come is deceptively difficult to get to do much of anything. Fuck. I get the hang of it eventually, but I had to go for another four rounds before he was actually satisfied. I got the impression that he wasn’t actually going to feed me, no matter how well I got him off.

 

I also got the impression that he wasn’t as satisfied with this whole kinky event as much as he usually is.

 

I don’t know if he genuinely is deriving enjoyment from this or he’s just getting frustrated that it’s not satisfying him the way it used to, because he plays this little game all day. It’s as if he’s spelled me to be attuned only to him. I’m bent over his cock, licking the head in quick strokes to catch all the liquid that comes out.

 

He asks me if I like the taste of it. I nod, if only to get him to stop talking. He then asks where I would like it more, in my mouth or up my ass. It’s a rhetorical question, I know from experience. And, because I am not an idiot, I say the right answer. “Up the ass.”

 

And he grabs me by the hair—which hurts more than I could have ever imagined—and pulls my ass up into the air. Cheek pressed into the bedding, I have an awful view of the whole thing from the mirror.

 

He positions his impressive arousal at the rim of my entrance, and I shiver in fearful anticipation. There’s the cold sensation of a lube charm and then he’s rammed himself in to the hilt, pushing me forward with the force of it and I scramble to hold onto one of the posters. Well, at least there was a lube charm at all.

 

The worst part is I’m getting off on this, and Voldemort is pleased to note it. He grabs my attention starved prick and strokes it in time to his thrusts. I’m moaning aloud, screaming, actually, but it almost feels too good to stop.

 

This greatly annoys me. I hate being reminded that Voldemort is actually really fucking fantastic at sex, he just chooses not to be almost all the time.

 

My mind wanders to an alternate universe where he actually puts that super power to good use; honestly, he probably wouldn’t even need to coerce me with a contract.

 

I can’t take my eyes off the mirror, off of Voldemort’s self-satisfied smirk and the way his massive cock plows into me. He presses in completely, and I grimace in pain, before I feel him pulse inside me, riding out his release. He’s breathing heavily from the activity and his hands grip my hips like a vice, cock still pouring come into me. It feels like an eternity of him filling me with milky liquid, before finally he’s done and pulls out.

 

As I lay there, panting and gasping and _so_ turned on, he levitates that stupid silver bowl to the bed, placing it between my legs. Like clockwork, it all begins to drool out of me, pooling thickly in the bowl before my very eyes. I hate feeling the stickiness of his semen as much as I hate watching it. My hole is still clenching needily, as if calling his cock to fill me once more.

 

But Voldemort seems to have had all his fun for the day, and looks content to watch his essence pour slowly into the milk bowl. My knees quake and I almost fall into the bowl, but roll over just in time. My body is screaming for energy, and I’m close to passing out, but I manage to get myself onto all fours when he demands it of me, and lick it up when he tells me to.

 

He lets me leave eventually, and I’m once more in the four poster red and gold bed of my dorm in Gryffindor, feeling the cooling sweat and lingering semen still inside me. I twist my legs, as if it will banish all of his essence from inside me, but I know my belly’s full of it and I’ve been stuffed both ways with it—it’s certainly not going anywhere.

 

If I walk awkwardly that day, no one notices.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“ _Does my little serpent want some milk?”_ It’s Parseltongue. He enjoys speaking the snake language to me. I wonder if it might be because he’s simply happy to have someone to speak it to and understand. Or perhaps its because he likes the way I shiver at the sound of it in my ear.

 

I will never understand his entirely absurd fascination with come—particularly of his own, particularly all over me. Actually, not even that; he prefers it inside, which makes even less sense. What does he like about it if he can’t even see it? Isn’t that the whole point of the fetish—to see it? Maybe it’s the ownership of it all. But then, he already owns me. What more could he possibly have?

 

I make a noise of approval, and his cock impales me ruthlessly. Has it gotten bigger? Or maybe I’m just not prepared. He even prepped me a bit today, working his fingers inside me just to watch me writhe against him. He made me crawl with them still inside, all the way to the bathroom, to fetch an actual bottle of lube. I didn’t even care because: lube. That he bothered to use it at all is rare. I was a mess by the time we’d made it back to his bedroom, and he didn’t even bother with getting onto the bed.

 

“ _Say it._ “ He hisses. It seems this answer doesn’t meet his approval.

 

“Y—Yes…” I gasp, rocking into the wall. “I want your milk…” Milk. What even. This is more ridiculous than usual.

 

“Inside you?”

 

I nod fervently. “Inside me.” I repeat dutifully.

 

An exultant expression crosses his face. So it’s one of those vocal days.

 

He stops screwing me into the wall, and instead hoists me so I’m sitting on one of the end tables, brushing away all the items on it and sending them clattering to the floor. Obviously he doesn’t care, for he grabs my ankles, spreads them wide and reams me wide open. The end table is small and it’s barely the size of my ass, so I grip the legs  behind me for dear life as he flies off the handle. The angle is perfection and he wastes no time plowing into me. In this position he seems to be two feet long and ten inches wide, and I feel like I’ve been stuffed with cock clear up my throat—this is absurd. He feels impossibly large all the time; I can barely take him as it is (in my defense, I don’t think _anyone_ could) to the point that sometimes it doesn’t even matter if he uses lube or not, I still bleed.

 

“How does it feel?” He grunts, powerfully pounding into me.

 

I can’t keep my breath he’s going so fast, but I choke the words out, “L—Like… ah-ah-ah…  like your cock is… _nnh—_ breaking me.”

 

“Breaking you?” Though breathless, his voice doesn’t waver like mine. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare break you, my precious little horcrux…”

 

I hate that word. I hate being his little horcrux. I hate his parasitic soul latching to mine and I hate how I feel _so complete_ every time he’s sheathed full inside me, every time his come fills me.

 

“Who’s are you, Potter?”

 

“I’m yours…” I gasp out.

 

“My what?”

 

“Your…” I grit my teeth. “Horcrux.”

 

“Oh, a little more than that.” He drawls. “I want you to want it. Beg me, Potter.”

 

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk—until I can’t even see straight and all I want is your cock to fill me up again.” Maybe a little bit repetitive—I think I used that exact sentence the last time—but honestly. There was an enormous cock up my ass. What does he expect?

 

“That’s nice. A little sincerity though, if you please. I can still hear the ‘fuck you’ all the way through.”

 

I don’t know what to say. This angle is revolutionary, and he spreads me wide to get clearer access and suddenly I’m seeing stars.

 

Did he have to do this now?

 

I try to keep focus. This can be over in a matter of seconds if I could just please him enough. “I want you to— _ah—_ fuck me until I beg you to stop and come inside me and then I want you to make me suck you off until I’m crying from it, and I want you to make me swallow all your—

 

I don’t finish though, because he fucks into me so hard I lose my grip and near fall off the table. It’s not a pleasant feeling, neither is him finishing inside me. He pulls out, the rest of the semen splattering all over my splayed form. Some catches on my mouth, and, holding his eyes, I lick it from my lips.

 

This seems to please him as he grabs one of my ankles and hoists it up into the air, stretching me for his perusing eyes. I think he gets off more from seeing his own essence leak out of me than anything—like he’s left another mark on me. Not that he needs more, he’s already got one, blinding and infamous on my forehead, and its not going anywhere. Hell, his fucking soul is stuck to my own like a parasitic, unfortunate younger cousin.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I awoke this morning to him filling me once more to the point it was mildly uncomfortable. All the mess from last night’s activities had pooled out of me and dried onto my legs, and I suppose my ass was in need of a fresh load. Instead of watching with satisfaction as his come worked its way inside me, I was uncomfortably plugged by a thick knob of plastic.

 

A butt plug.

 

Dammit.

 

It wasn’t particularly large, definitely nothing in comparison to the impressive phallus of Voldemort, but it was enough to make me wince as he put it in.

 

With that, I was off to school, near limping from being fucked so thoroughly last night and all through the morning. Every time I closed my eyes I could see his face as he fucked into me. He appeared… not nearly as satisfied as usual. I even cried. This usually drives him absolutely wild. Whatever he was looking for I assumed he’d find it eventually—by the fourth time, at least—but I don’t think he ever got whatever he wanted out of it. Hell, that’s his problem.

 

He has his latest Death Eater, Theodore Nott, keeping an eye on me the whole day. It’s the last class and I’m flushed and breathing hard. If Snape is aware of what the Dark Lord and I do during the hours of the night, he fortunately doesn’t comment on it. He drones on through potions class as I grip the table so hard it might shake. I feel full and really fucking uncomfortable, and everything’s bottled inside me by this butt plug. Every time I move I can clearly feel it inside me, and I feel sticky and wet.

 

By the time class is finally over I’m ready to collapse. You’d think that after all this sexual torment from Voldemort I’d be used to something as simple as a butt plug. You’d also think that after all this time, I’d realize he’d soaked it in an aphrodisiac before he shoved it inside me.

 

Theo pulls me into a classroom almost immediately afterwards, spelling the door locked and leering at me appreciatively.

 

“The Dark Lord asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you’re—what did he say? Behaving, I recall,” he starts, looking me up and down. “Says that I’ll know what I’m looking for. Care to tell me what it is?”

 

I don’t say anything. I don’t trust myself to say anything. I’m burning up from the inside.

 

“C’mon Potter.” He taunts. “You’ll share your secrets with the Dark Lord but not me?”

 

“F—Fuck you.” I hiss at him, unintentionally backing myself into a desk as he mounts forward on me.

 

“That sounds like a good idea.” He smiles suggestively at me.

 

His hand barely touches my shoulder and it’s like a jolt of pleasure to my cock. I jump. Theo notices, and slides his hand down my clothed arm.

 

“So sensitive…” He murmurs. “The Dark Lord asked me to bring you to him immediately, but I think I’ll take my time with you.”

 

I know what he’s suggesting, but there’s a different between knowing and taking action. I seem to be failing at the action part. Every touch burns my nerve endings and Theo rips through the buttons of my shirt, leaving it wide open, the red and gold tie limp around my neck.

 

“Well, well, Potter. What do we have here…” He rubs a finger up the bottom of my cock and I give a mangled cry. “Getting hard for me already?” Yes, actually. I’m impossibly rock hard.

 

“Such a cute little slut you are…” His eyes don’t leave my penis, though he’s aware enough to rope one of my legs to the leg of the desk. The other, he props onto the desk, giving him an ample view of my spread privates.

 

I try to close them, but he’s already spotted it.

 

“What’s this?”

 

His fingers grab for the handle of the butt plug and I’m sent screaming as it wiggles inside me, stirring Tom’s hot sperm like my body is some sort of cauldron.

 

“Potter…” He drawls, twisting it, if only to watch my face contort in pleasure. “I never thought you’d be such a naughty, _naughty_ whore…”

 

I’ve bit my lip so hard it’s bleeding, but it doesn’t stop me from giving a wrenched cry as he forcefully tugs it out of me in one go. Tom’s cum goes spilling out of me and sopping on to the desk, pooling around my arse before it drips off the table. Nott stares in wonder at the amount of semen plugged inside me, one hand prying my legs open and the other going to the ring of muscle hiding my entrance. “A little cum slut, huh?” He smirks. “Do you like being stuffed with semen? Does it turn you on?”

 

I’m so slicked and stretched that I hardly feel his first finger enter me, nor the second, or the third. He’s finger fucking me now and I can’t even see straight, I wouldn’t even fight him off even if I could—which I can’t.

 

“You like that, eh, Potter?” He mutters darkly. “You like my fingers fucking you like that?”

 

“Stop— _hah…_ ah…” I can’t even respond, it feels so good. If nothing else, I tried valiantly to get myself to move at the thought of Voldemort’s reaction. Though this is entirely not my fault, that doesn’t mean I won’t get away without punishment. Even the thought of a round of Tom’s punishment doesn’t make me move.

 

“Yeah…” He says, breathlessly, eyes glued to my arse sucking his fingers in greedily. He stretches them wide, and more cum slickens his fingers and leaks out of me. “Yeah you do.”

 

“You—“ I move with the force of his hand. “Fucker…” He spreads me wide and pulls them out to the tip. I throw my head back and end up slamming it against a wall. “He’s not g—going to…” He pushes them in again, and I contort at the sensation. “Like this...” I finish.

 

Nott tilts his head, not looking impressed with my broken words. “Oh?” Merlin. Is that four? “And who’s _he?”_ Nott snickers. “Your little boyfriend?”

 

Maybe he’s thinking of Ron right now, or Seamus or Dean. But all I see is the Dark Lord’s furious face at the very thought of being considered something even remotely like a boyfriend. No. He’s the other half of my soul. My jailer.

 

“No.” I smirk at him, though it’s small and pained. “The dark lord.”

 

Nott’s eyes widen. His left arm, whose fingers happen to be screwing me, burns with a recognition that makes him go pale. His right hand’s grip on my splayed leg loosens until I can freely move it.

 

Theo wrenches his fingers out of me and I choke. More liquis splatters out. Holy hell, Tom really filled me. Nott hastily wipes his come slick fingers on his robe before he apparates, looking rightfully terrified. I feel the portkey around my neck burn as I’m summoned as well.

 

I’m not going to lie, I feel a pretty immense sense of retribution as the Dark Lord back hands the blonde to the floor, throwing an unforgivable at him as he stalks forward, watching him scream in pain. This does not satisfy him at all; a violent, livid fury overtakes his features as he punishes his follower into insanity. For once, Tom doesn’t blame me, probably aware that the potion he gave me was made specifically to have me helpless to any sexual encounter. The Dark Lord has his fun with him, and for a moment I’m actually a little thankful our fun is the more pleasurable kind. I’d much rather be fucked than tortured into the strewn body that is Theodore Nott.

 

I’ve crawled myself to the wall, knees to my chest and shaking, watching with unseeing eyes as Nott looks ready to meet his death.

 

It goes on for a little longer, and I’m sure Nott’s been accumulatively under the cruciatus for more than ten minutes, and he’s incoherent on the floor, a bloody heap that may or may not be dead, rolled into a ball. Voldemort gives him a dismissive glance, looking as if even this has not even quelled an ounce of his rage, before moving to me.

 

I’m looking at him with wide, fearful eyes. Why am I fearful? We’ve done this song and dance a little too long for me to be scared. It’s that look in his eyes, I guess. It’s murderous. Will he do the same to me?

 

He doesn’t.

 

Instead, he pulls me up and wrenches my legs apart and takes me there. Miraculously it doesn’t hurt—I’ve been stuffed clean with that butt plug for so long that for once, it actually feels a bit good. Maybe Voldemort’s just gotten good at fucking me, or maybe I’m turning into a sick bastard, but either way I’m enjoying it, moaning like a Knockturn Alley whore and gripping my legs around his waist. I hate this position; hoisted up by him with a perfect view of his face. The worst part is he’s watching me with calculating eyes, most likely feeling satisfied at my flushed, honest face. I love this. He knows it.

 

There is something very dangerous to his expression—infinitely more than usual, but I don’t know what it is.

 

“You’re mine.” He whispers, possessively. “You’re mine and no one can take you from me—

 

I knew this already, but I only nod helplessly. Anything to feel that thick cock screw me harder. For once in my life I appreciate his large girth, having been stretched the whole day for its lovely accommodation.

 

He comes inside me, replacing whatever Nott spilt out and then some, and I shiver in delight at the sensation. Merlin I’m messed up. I feel completely claimed by him, all the love bites he’s marked on my neck and all the seed released inside me; even my scar was given to me by him, the unnatural Avada Kedavra green to my eyes.

 

He doesn’t let me down until he’s apparated us back to his chambers, and even then he holds me up as he walks into his bedroom, before throwing me onto the bed.

 

Even still, the look in his eyes remains. It almost looks something like fear—I scoff, inwardly. That’s impossible. The dark lord fears nothing.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Fifth year ends, much to my complete and utter despair.

 

That said, my despair isn’t any more or less than the usual horror I feel at the advent of summer; the Durselys, Lord Voldemort—all of these are just synonymous ways of saying three months of unending hell.

 

Maybe he’s come to some sort of possessive decision about me, but his Death Eaters are no longer allowed to touch me. They can watch, of course, as he screws me endlessly in his lap, reaming me open and spreading my legs wide for his followers to have an appreciative view. I’m aware I’m crying, and my face is red with humiliation, and if anything it only turns the Dark Lord on more. There is nothing he loves more in this life than my continued embarrassment and tears. Both become harder and harder to conjure the more he attempts to wrangle them out; eventually I’m going to stop caring about it at all, and then what’s he supposed to do?

 

We’ve learnt of the prophecy—that doesn’t stop him from fucking me every night. In fact, I daresay he’s even pleased by this. That whole ‘marked by the Dark Lord’  thing must really give him some sort of kick. Yes, how very fucking surprising. Another confirmation of his ownership over me, giving him pleasure. The whole ‘neither can live while the other survives’ part gives him some pause, but after that he dismisses it—coming to some conclusion, I’m assuming.

 

Well, he won’t kill me. I’m his horcrux; that’s incredibly counterintuitive. On the other hand, I can’t kill him. First of all that’s practically impossible and second he signed that contract—if I attempt and fail I don’t care what happens to me, it’s the rest of the world I’m worried about.

 

This time when he finishes inside me, he lets me lay their placidly, still impaled on his long, thick cock but no longer bouncing by the forth of his thrusts. I’m not led on all fours to let the death eaters have their go. In fact, Lucius Malfoy doesn’t even get a turn at my mouth. He seems to have fallen out of favor with the Dark Lord, and has herded himself into a far corner, away from the crowd that has gathered to watch their lord have his ruthless fuck of the day. 

 

The amassed followers disappear, but I know that’s only the first round. There’s more of them coming, and I’m sure Voldemort’s going to want to show me off to them as well.

 

He pulls himself out of me slowly, taking enjoyment as I writhe in his lap at the sticky feeling of cum drooling out of me and the sliding of his penis as it leaves me. It must be some sort of stamina potion, It must be, because it’s impossible for a man to grow hard after mere seconds from climax. Potion, hell, probably a ritual. There’s no way he could take that many of them every single time. Probably some dark ritual of sex magic, because that is a thing, apparently. There is a very dark side to the customs of the wizarding world, one that clearly he and his followers embrace with open arms. I'm pretty sure most people would be bewildered or maybe even a bit grossed out to watch their esteemed leader fuck some kid as they give a report, but not these guys. If anything they get off on it— they  _expect_ it, even. I'm clearly not the first person who's had to endure this.  

 

He’s arranged his clothes once more, but I’m still sweaty and naked in his lap, my arse covered and leaking and wet and messy and—ugh. This sucks.

 

The first order of business is the report, in which each Death Eater kneels before his feet and tells him what he wants to hear. If it isn’t, they’re in for a round of torture. I’ve noticed the suggestive leers that rove over my body, though they’d never say it aloud or act on their desires. They’ve learnt the lesson from Nott. Once it’s all done, as if it’s simply an order of business, Voldemort has me undo his pants, springing his endowed erection free.

 

They’re all watching closely now, almost excitedly, and I’m so disturbed I make the awful choice of looking at their faces.

 

They can’t see mine, but I can see theirs.

 

Voldemort pries my limp legs open, giving his followers ample view of my gaping, literally screwed asshole, holding me up like that until I can feel the barest tip of his head against my winking entrance.

 

Its so good its torture. The shameful spreading and the humiliation of realizing that Snape was the last to report, and therefore the one closest. I want to close my legs and melt into the ground, but I can’t. All I can do is shiver in anticipation, waiting for Voldemort to impale me onto his impressive phallus.

 

The smooth head wrenches me open effortlessly as Voldemort drops me on his cock, and it hurts from the speed and girth. He’s let go of my legs so I know he’s not going to move me, and I’ll have to do it myself. I grip his knees and lean forward, fucking myself on his dick. It’s so big I can feel it in my stomach in this position, my spine is a bundle of pain and his cock seems to impale me right into my throat. If the length wasn’t already awful, it’s the thickness. The burning stretch never stops; I never seem to get fully accustomed to his cock. Every time I feel like I am I somehow end up back to my virgin self. Voldemort loves it, I know. But I can tell you, I don’t.

 

I know when he’s about to climax, because he grips my hips and begins to move me up and down on his cock himself, no longer content with the broken, slow rhythm I’ve set for myself.

 

My eyes accidentally meet Snape’s as Voldemort rides out his release, and I can’t seem to close them.

 

I can only pray that he never manages to find out its me.

 

The dark lord pulls out of me eventually, crooning into my ear and petting my hair like a very well-behaved pet that just performed a nice trick for him. I don’t even bother getting mad about it—the petting part feels kind of nice, actually. The taunting I ignore entirely.

 

That’s the thing that Lord Voldemort simply hasn’t gotten yet, I guess. He clearly assumes he’s the first person to ever make my life a violent living hell—he is very much so wrong. I have decades of experience in that regard; fourteen goddamn years of it. Until fourth year I endured the mistreatment, abuse, and occasionally even trauma-inducing violence of my family, after which I experienced pretty much the same thing, but just by him instead. And unlike Uncle Vernon, he’s actually made good on his promise to fuck me until I cried.

 

But all this just means I’ve perfected the art of compartmentalizing myself and shutting everything else off. That might actually be the only beneficial thing Snape ever did for me when he tried to teach me Occlumency—I definitely didn’t learn Occlumency, but I did learn how to train my mind to ignore anything I don’t want to see. Let him think I’m broken though; it’s far easier this way.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

The long, infinite summer months continue, dragging their feet to autumn as if they have a personal vendetta against me.

 

Every day is much of the same—well, the days when he’s in the Manor, at any rate.

 

I think we’ve moved, but I can’t be sure. His rooms look somewhat different than before; the furniture has all been changed, aside from some few key pieces I’m assuming hold some kind of value to him. Either that or he just felt in the mood for redecorating.

 

But to be honest, there are far more days he’s gone than days he’s at the Manor.

 

And even then, on the days I do see him, it is very briefly in the evening. This all constitutes as a few shitty hours a week and in the grand scheme of things, it could be a lot worse. At the Dursley’s it was universal hell at every second of every day. I couldn’t escape it, even at night. There was Petunia yelling at me in the mornings, demanding things of me through the day, wielding her spatula as a weapon of mass destruction; Dudley during the day, always finding new but not particularly inventive ways to hurt me; and Vernon at night, with beatings and belts, but occasionally he would come in during the darkness and demand things from me. _Take off your shirt_ , he’d say. _Lie on your stomach. Spread your legs._

 

He never actually touched me, though he would say any magnitude of the lewd things he would do to me. Progressively more sexual as I grew older—but definitely still there when I was younger. Starting since… well actually I don’t even remember when.

 

Even though when you compare them side by side—what Vernon did then and what the dark lord does now—one seems much worse than the other, it’s honestly Vernon that I fear more. Who knows why; he certainly doesn’t have the capacity to completely ruin me the way Voldemort does. Maybe it’s just because I’ve feared him longer; that I’ve feared him since I was a child, defenseless and alone. Before I learned how to turn my mind into endless layers of smoke and mirrors, protecting my real self with impenetrable walls. 

 

I don’t mention any of this to anyone. Most certainly not Voldemort.

 

It’s not like we have much in the way of conversations.

 

Anyway, Voldemort comes and goes; does what he likes with me, tortures innocents with his followers, terrorizes the world at large. Now that his presence has been revealed I’m sure the world outside is changing; who knows what will await me when I return to school.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Voldemort returns one evening in a rage that is far more potent than usual.

 

Most of his ire is vented with rounds of unforgiveables at his followers, who I’m assuming messed something up or angerd him somehow. But this does not mean that I come out of his rage unscathed.

 

It’s not any worse or better than it normally is.

 

He bends me over his desk and attempts to release his anger with a paddle to my arse. This doesn’t end up satisfying him in the slightest. He takes me at least three times in his office, running his fingers through the mess and making me lick them clean. This doesn’t seem to have its usual effect, either—that is rather strange, because there is very little that the dark lord enjoys more than seeing me covered in his essence, licking it up off his fingers. He takes me a few more times in the bed, but this works as an outlet for his rage as well as the rest of it did, which is to say, not at all.

 

He must realize this because he leaves me there, stalking out of the room to most likely continue to torture his followers. Good riddance.

 

I end up falling asleep out of pure exhaustion while he’s gone. A sleep far deeper than what I normally achieve when he’s around, because he hasn’t pulled me awake to satisfy him in some sexual fashion, and he’s not around or to be a constant, ominous presence in the bed that makes me unable to truly find sleep.

 

I’m awoken violently by a sharp pain in my shoulder.

 

I startle awake; the dark lord hovers above me, looking irritated in the early-morning gloom. I look around wildly—is it five am already? No, it can’t be. It’s not nearly light enough outside. I don’t know what I was dreaming about, but I feel disoriented and out of sorts.

 

“Stop your incessant yelling,” he demands, grasping my chin in a painful grip,“Or I’ll make you sleep on the floor.”

 

I stay silent, blinking up at him, trying to make sense of my thoughts and the remains of my dreams.

 

“And stop that thrashing or I’ll chain you to the bedpost.” He adds, releasing me violently.

 

I’m still delirious, sleep-deprived, and, apparently, have been crying hysterically because I find my cheeks are wet and ruddy. I don’t know what the hell is happening, and it’s dark enough and his voice is angry enough to confuse me until I don’t really remember where I am, or who he is.

 

“I’m sorry,” I croak out, breath hitching, looking around wildly. I feel lost in vertigo and in the blackness of the night I’m suddenly hit with a strong impression of Dudley’s spare room, of Vernon over top of me, whispering in my ear. “I’m sorry Uncle Vernon, I won’t do it again, please don’t do this to me. Please, I promise—”

 

I register vaguely that I’m babbling mindlessly. But I can't stop; I am seized by a sudden and uncontrollable fear.

 

Above me Voldemort frowns. “ _Potter.”_

 

I shake myself into reality, prying away from the terror that remains coiled in my stomach.

 

Oh, it’s Voldemort. I blink. _Hell_ , it’s Voldemort.

 

“Oh. Sorry,” I say, again, voice cracking as I wipe at my eyes. And then, shaking my head. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It won’t happen again.”

 

I’m impressed he hasn’t found some creative spell to punish me with. I don’t know how long I sit there trying to stop my crying, wiping furtively at my eyes. It was just a fucking dream, I remind myself. And whatever it was probably didn’t even hold a candle to the shit Voldemort pulls on you now. This is invariably true, but doesn’t seem to calm me down at all.

 

I look up then, noticing Voldemort is still staring down at me.

 

He isn’t commanding me to do anything though, so i ignore him, throwing an arm over my face like it will stop the undending tide of tears. It doesn’t; they just stream down my face silently.

 

I want to yell at him. What do you want from me? He’s probably just angry that he wasn’t the one to cause my pain this time.

 

I feel a small drop of vindication at that. He can do a lot of terrible things to me, but against all reason—he’s not what brings nightmares out from the recesses of my mind.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

Seeing as though his last excursion went awry, thanks to one Theodore Nott, the Dark Lord begins his experiment once more the following morning.

 

I don’t know how much semen he’s pumped in to me but it’s about four times more than usual, as he’s fucked me four times without pulling out. He wastes no time letting the spillage release out of my more-than-full arse, and plugs me up quick with a butt plug. I struggle, but then it’s useless. It gives me this awful bloated feeling, and all I can do is lay there and take it.

 

The worst part is thinking that I’ve actually gotten used to this, or worse, liking the feeling of being so full with it.

 

That silver bowl makes an encore appearance in the evening when I return, as he releases his essence into it, deriving satisfaction from watching me kneel down to lap it up. It tastes bitter and is quite possibly the most disturbing texture to exist, and sometimes it slides right off my tongue and I have to lap furiously to get it to stay.

 

Really though, this come fetish thing might actually be starting to get out of hand. Well, not that it wasn’t already, but I genuinely am running out of ideas that could further his obsession. And if _I’m_ running out, that probably means he already has.

 

Before he has to return me, he makes me crawl on top of his desk, conjured bowl between my legs. It’s with great pleasure that he rips out the butt plug, and all the cum from this morning erupts out of me. I hate to love this slickened feeling, my passage still covered in his semen and my legs splattered with it. It doesn’t all drip into the bowl, some of it trickles down my leg sand dries there as I bend down to lick it all up, bent on his desk and giving a perfect view of my pink, puckered hole.

 

As I lap up my dinner he coaxes out the rest of his come with his fingers, splaying my abused entrance apart, and when I’m done, makes me lap all that too, sucking each and every finger clean. It’s a messy way to eat and a lot of the mess has drooled out of my mouth and down the front of my shirt. But, I mean, I’m impressed I even have a shirt on at all.

 

I see it when the clock announces it’s time for my departure—not from the clock but from his face. He looks furious as usual, but I don’t bother to wait, grasping the necklace hanging lopsided around my collarbone.

 

He rips the necklace off of me before I can even think of using it. I watch in shock as it soars through the air and clatters onto the floor.

 

It’s an event that he hates above all else, but he’s never before gotten in the way of it.

 

He pushes me back down onto my back, my eyes wide and alarmed. I don’t know why I’m so scared; what could he do to me that he hasn’t done already? For the record, I just had to indulge his rampant comeplay fantasies for the past couple hours—I don’t think it gets much worse than that. But maybe it’s because of the livid rage in his eyes, or the way his hands grip my hips until I feel like he might crush the bone. I can’t understand why he’s so angry; I haven’t done a single thing to piss him off, and neither has anyone else. He looked… satisfied and smug the entire day. What changed?

 

It’s past five. I can see it with my own eyes when the magic of that contract begins to take effect. It looks… incredibly painful, but he won’t let go of me.

 

The air around us seems to sizzle with burning magic. I feel as if I could smell it in the air—all the magic leaving him as he fights the contract. But he knows as well as I do what the consequence is of breaking it; so why isn’t he letting me go?

 

“Let me go,” I whisper; the first thing I’ve said of my own volition in days—weeks, maybe even months. Hell, it might be the first thing I’ve said all year.

 

I can’t remember a time I actually opened my mouth and said something voluntarily.

 

He must realize it too, because he stares down at me intensely. He watches me with dark, volcanic eyes; completely unreadable. I feel in pain just by watching him.

 

My expressionless mask breaks as my eyes dart back and forth from his face to the pendant on the floor. The grip on my hips is becoming unbearable; I can feel him shaking through it.

 

I push away from him.

 

“ _Let me go!”_

 

He stumbles back, breathing heavily. The pendant comes shooting in the air and almost hits me in the face. I catch it just in time and send a terrified glance his way, just before I’m taken back. I know why I’m scared; that rage can’t mean anything good.

 

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Things really come to a head after that.

 

The dark lord flies into a rage even I don’t know how to handle. At the very least, it appears the death eaters are less enthused than usual, as if out of solidarity with me. Because they are definitly facing the full brunt of it as much as I am. I’m in his lap (again) staring down at the surprisingly terrified faces of his followers (again), in complete pain from a brutal and ruthless fuck (again).

 

It’s been worse than usual, but only because he seems to have no patience to indulge in his usual games.

 

He _crucio_ ’s them at will, with absolutely no rhyme or reason. Honestly the crucio is probably the lesser of all the evils today; he’s also cast an entrails ripping curse, a blood boiling curse, and some strange thing that made someone bleed out from every orifice. Someone else was torn limb from limb. Hell, the sex is probably the real lesser of all the evils.

 

He is savage and terrible, but he’s always savage and terrible.

 

And there’s not much else he can do to me that he hasn’t already. He doesn’t throw any unforgiveables or painful curses my way, hasn’t, actually, since the first summer of hell I had to endure. He’d prefer to see me in tears and in pain through sexual means—through submission and domination, rather than physical pain. I don’t actually know which is worse on some days.

 

He chains me to the bed for the whole weekend, as if he couldn’t have kept me there just by telling me not to leave. Whatever. It’s probably the idea of me collared to the bedpost rather than the ordering me not to move from the bed that he’s going for. And when he pulls my legs apart and fucks me into the headboard, it’s—well, it’s not great, but not nearly as bad as I exected.

 

“You’re mine,” he whispers into my ear, possessive and incensed.

 

I nod frantically.

 

“Say it,” he demands, with such a brutal thrust I have to catch myself on the headboard before I crash head first into it.

 

“I’m yours,” I reply, diligent.

 

“You’re mine,” he repeats, growling, bringing a hand to my hair, grabbing it and snapping my head back. I wince. Again with the hair. “You’re _mine_ , Harry Potter. You can’t escape me—I _own_ you, do you understand? Everything about you belongs to me.”

 

Yes, that would be the obvious conclusion after you signed a _contract of ownership of me._

 

“Yes,” I agree, startled and gasping. “I’m yours—you own me.”

 

_“All of you.”_

“All of me.” I repeat.

 

This doesn’t seem to be mollifying him even in the slightest. “Every fucking inch of you,” he murmurs, lips so close to my ear I can feel them moving against it, still holding my hair in a punishing grip.

 

“Yes, yes,” I babble, insensibly. “You own me, every part of me, every inch of me, I’m yours—

 

At some point between my mindless repetition and his exponentially increasing anger and eventual climax, I get the impression he’s not really trying to convince _me_ of this. But why would he need to convince himself? How is it not utterly obvious? How has he not already staked his claim on me—how is he not satisfied with his utter domination of me? I don’t even think it’s possible to own a person more than he owns me—both body and soul. Literally, in both cases.

 

He unchains me eventually, but he doesn’t tell me to leave the bed so I don’t. I lay there complacently as he moves me around as he likes, fixing my gaze on the ceiling. I like playing pretend tetris with the tiles; it actually holds my attention quite well, even though I’m not actually a five year old child.

 

He never cares what I do as long as I’m doing what he wants, but my apathy angers him for some reason. He wrenches my attention away from my fake game (that I was winning!) with a punishing grip on my chin. I turn to him, giving him my best, submissive dead-fish eye look. He stares down at me, before shoving me away with a growl.

 

He’s having more issues than usual today, but I mentally shrug it off. That’s not my problem.

 

Still, the broken, lifeless, and submissive gaze is one of his favorite things to get off on—mine too, actually. I mean, not the getting off part, but I do like it too. It’s a patently easy expression to master and has the added bonus of being completely unreadable. He’ll never be able to tell what kind of awful or hilarious shit I’m thinking about him from past the empty, passive expression that’s practically second nature on my face.

 

He loves the idea that he’s broken Harry Potter—that his most hated adversary is now just a simple doll he can use to do what he likes to.

 

I’m not sure why it’s not working today.

 

He returns some time later, holding a tall glass vial.

 

He looms above me, where I’m lying in the same position he left me in, staring sightlessly at the far window. Not contemplating escape or anything, just fixing a dead look at the light playing against the curtains. Because I am apparently a five year old child and pretty shiny things can completely captivate all of my attention. My eyes drift upwards when he hovers above me still, a contemplative but equally angered look on his face.

 

Did someone piss him off again, or is this just residual pissiness from the rest of the day?

 

Either way I take it from him without complaint, pop the cork and down it. Who the hell knows what it was—it’s better to just suck it up and drink it rather than attempt to fight him. Actually, I’m pretty sure nothing he can do to me is worth intentionally incurring his wrath.

 

It tastes funny, but then I hadn’t expected it to taste like pumpkin juice or anything.

 

I give it back to him, blankly returning to gaze at the window. From this angle, it could almost be a jellyfish. Or maybe a humpback whale.

 

He’s still looking down at me. Angrily.

 

Does he want me to cry? I’m not sure what else he could want from me. Whatever it is, he gives up eventually, spinning around and leaving the room with an audible bang of the doors.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

A pregnancy potion.

 

It was a fucking pregnancy potion.

 

I knew it, too. From the moment my stomach started to feel horrible. There’s only a few potions that leave the subject with a burning sensation in the stomach, starting with a searing pain that renders them unconscious for the majority of the transformation.

 

From the outside, I don’t look any different.

 

From the inside…

 

Tom presses me against the wall, and I’m fighting furiously, hysterically, knowing full well what the consequences of his little comeplay kink will do to me now. Finally he gets irritated with my incessant struggling and chains my arms above my head, pressing my chest to the wall and grabbing my hips.

 

It’s so awful, now. A thousand times worse as he slides his rigid cock between my cheeks, slowly, taking his precious time.

 

I’m crying, sobbing, actually, begging him to stop but I know he won’t, and each brush of the head of his cock against my entrance has me tensing up in fear.

 

The head of his dick parts me open, and I’m shouting now, loud enough that the dungeon I’m in is ringing with my voice. He holds me there on the tip of his cock for some time, convulsing on it as if to push it out. He doesn’t pull out, though. In fact, he plunges right in, and it _hurts_ when he hits something all the way inside me. I know it’s the womb. He might’ve broken right into it—I don’t know. It sure felt like it.

 

He pulls out all the way again, until I’m left clenching helplessly at the head of his cock, and then he surges in ruthlessly, sheathing himself to the hilt. It goes on like this for some time, me, shaking, sobbing, screaming. Him in a wild rhythm that actually has me slamming into the wall. And then I feel it; all his seed released deep inside me. And I know, know he’s taken a fertility potion because it’s so _much,_ burning hot as it drips down my legs, splattering to the floor.

 

The Dark Lord gives a grunt as he pulls himself out of me with a squelch and a pop, and I cringe at the sound, which is almost worse than the liquid I can feel leaking out of me.

 

He doesn’t unchain my arms, but he does loosen them so I can fall pitifully to the floor, curled up against the wall in hysterics.

 

He leaves me there in a mess of bodily fluids, my knees shaking from the force of being shut so tightly, as if it will dispel all the semen from inside me.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

He returns two days later, and I’m still there, and I can still feel it in me, slick  and coating my insides. He wastes no time in whipping out his wand and casting a spell at me. At this point I'm so damn tired I can't even really bring myself to be worried over what it is. It's not a curse, though, for I feel no pain. Actually, it doesn't do anything but make me glow blue. Oh, I see. It's a pregnancy spell. 

 

He’s furious as the pregnancy spell comes out negative. So furious, in fact, he throws me to the ground, lifts my ass up and takes me dry, four times in a row.

 

Now there’s a fresh load of come, mingled with more of my blood from such a violent taking, and Voldemort is panting furiously as he stands up from behind me, murderous, almost. But a round of crucio wouldn’t serve his purpose now. Instead, he only watches me as I pant limply into the cold floor.

 

The furious expression doesn’t leave him as he leaves me there, slamming the door behind him.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

This is the third time, and still no baby.

 

Voldemort must have realized he’s done something wrong, for he’s unchained me, taken me out of the dungeon, and put me to bed. It’s a fantastic sensation to be clean once more, though I feel like I’ll never be clean on the inside.

 

He’s rubbing his hands slowly all over me, and I feel a little dizzy, but contented, slow, and sleepy. Drowsy, in a way that would usually concern me but doesn’t right now. “Harry,” He whispers, darkly loving. “ _Harry_ …”

 

“Hmm?” I reply, opening my eyes slowly. His hands massage my shoulders, my back, peppering kisses— _kisses!_ —down my spine like an impromptu lover.

 

 _It’s a game,_ I remind myself. _This is some sort of game._

At the thought, my eyes, which had fallen shut again, snap open. The euphoria of the bath, the massage, and all the pampering of this morning washes out of me, and I narrow my gaze at him. “What?” I ask, guarded.

 

He leans up and kisses me solidly on the mouth, which surprises me more, as for as long as I’ve been here he’s never kissed me once—and I feel two slicked fingers enter into me, slow and warm.

 

 _He’s preparing me?_ I think, blindsided. He never bothers with that.

 

His lips are opening mine, tongue sweeping against my own as his hands give me pleasure—one teasing my opening, the other coaxing my cock into hardness. I break away from the kiss with an involuntary moan. “What are you—

 

“Shh, Harry…” He whispers again, and I’m annoyed with my name but a little too pleasured to care about it. It’s never felt so good… so natural. He scissors his fingers and I arch my back, fingertips pressing across that spot inside that usually he only ignores completely.

 

“ _Ahh…”_ Breathless moans are coming out involuntarily, but I’m incorrigibly turned on and feel _hot,_ almost sickly hot, panting and clenching at the sheets.

 

“Do you like that, Harry?” He says, adding three fingers. I arch my back, gritting my teeth.

 

“I…”

 

“Do you want to feel my cock instead?” He croons into my ear. “Do you want to feel it inside? I promise, I’ll make it feel good.”

 

A part of me wants him to make good on his promise, to feel him inside—his thick, glorious cock—that painfully good burning and the feel of it molding into me, stretching me, filling me—

 

“Tell me,” he commands.

 

“Yeah.” I say, before I can stop myself, hands coming up to clutch at his biceps. “Yeah, I want it.”

 

He smirks, or maybe smiles, it looks a little malicious but not as much as usual, and his fingers slowly make their way out of me, and I’m left aching for something more, something bigger, to fill their place.

 

He still has one hand pumping my shaft, the other slicking himself up with lube. _Lube._ I can’t remember the last time he used that. Or if he's ever actually used it, at all. 

 

I close my eyes, waiting for the quick and ruthless breech, holding my breath and bearing down for it; when it doesn’t come. Instead there’s a slow stretch as his turgid, hot length buries itself between my legs, my body sucking him in inch by inch in the most brutally _slow_ pace I’ve ever had. But its wondrous. I can’t even explain how good it feels, which is awful, really, I hate to enjoy it, but he’s a man who certainly knows how to use his dick, that’s for sure. It's still a tight fit, and not particularly comfortable, but it's almost a pleasant sort of pain. It still takes some getting used to, but doesn't feel nearly as invasive as it usually does. 

 

“Oh—“ I gasp, as he sheaths himself completely. I feel a little helpless, stuffed with this enormous cock and pawing weakly at his shoulders, but it almost feels too good. “Tom….”

 

I’ve never said his name before, either. Perhaps I’ve called him Voldemort once or twice, but not Tom, never Tom, and the experience calls forth an exultant expression to his face, which peers down at me curiously, genuinely.

 

“Tell me what you want, Harry.” He whispers to me, his face so close I can see the green in his red eyes, and he can probably see the red in mine.

 

Oh god, there really was no explaining it, was there? I hated him with my very being, hated everything about him. He’s raped me, tortured me, and basically ruined my life, and I abhor his very existence and yet I can’t get enough of him. He _is_ me, in a way, and I can’t help but feel this way. Like a sadistic, emotionally stunted and demented version of me, but having him inside me like this almost makes me feel complete. 

 

“I want you…” It comes out, spilling. I choke as the words stir his hips into movement. But it’s a slow, tempting one. “I want you to take me, I want to feel you in me… I want you to,” I swallow dryly, the feel of his cock inside me getting me to say things I’d never admit even to myself. “Come inside me, fill me up until I can’t take anymore, and I’m so full of it you’re all I can taste—

 

My embarrassing monologue is cut off by a low, guttural moan, and I can tell my dirty impromptu confessions are getting to him as he drops his head onto his chest and an expression I’ve never seen before filters over his face. It’s a mix of desire, lust, and impatience… and something else.

 

“You really do like it, don’t you Harry?” He says, a little breathlessly. “You like my cock screwing you like _this—_

His hips brutally ram into me quickly, and I gasp at the head of his cock spears deep inside me. “And you like it when I claim you, when I fill you with my seed, don’t you?”

 

I nod helplessly, gripping his shoulders and practically impaling myself onto it. “Yeah,” I say, breathlessly. “Yeah I do.”

 

His pace has sped up, shaking the bed and taking me with it. “And you want it now?” He pants. “You want me to come inside you?”

 

 _“Yes_!” I cry aloud, tossing my head back, and his hands grab my hips and punishingly slam me onto him. “I want it!”

 

He sheathes himself completely inside me, buried to the hilt and I feel the burning hot sperm inside, filling my stomach with his essence—and maybe even more. I don’t want to think about _why_ he’s being such a gallivanting lover right now, about the pregnancy potion, and what this could possibly do to me. All I want to feel is my arse slicked inside with Tom, clenching against his cock and milking it for every last drop.

 

“ _Ahh_ …” I collapse, satiated and full. One hand strays to my stomach, where I feel bloated, almost. There's always a lot, but with a fertility potion it's almost unbearable.

 

He pulls out, but I still feel full. There’s a string of cum that’s coming from the head of his cock and connecting to my entrance, and he stares at it, almost hungrily. We share a look, one I don’t think I’ll ever truly want to decipher, before he rolls onto his side next to me, looking entirely burned out. Which is a first, because usually he’s up for at least four rounds.

 

But I’m just as burned out, and when I close my eyes I’m out like a light.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I wake up. Naturally. No jolt to shove me out of bed, no shaking, nothing. It already puts me at unease.

 

I realize I’m pressed against something burning like a furnace. I look down to see Voldemort’s large hand pressing against my stomach. He’s spooning me. He never does that—he never cuddles. Just saying that word and thinking of him is bizarre.

 

I begin to recall last night with a white hot fury. Love potions were most definitely involved, what the hell. I was dosed up like no one’s business—high as a fucking kite. I would have never done any of that voluntarily if I wasn’t. I feel like I can still taste it, something way too sickly sweet on my tongue.

 

He stirs, and the possessive hand on my stomach grips me slightly, for a moment, before it relaxes again.

 

I kind of feel like drifting off again, but he's definitely awake now, and I can feel his heavy arousal against me, spreading my cheeks as he rolls his hips, brushing against my thoroughly abused entrance with every pass. It feels—okay, I guess. Nothing to write home about. Definitely nothing like last night, when I was so stoned I couldn’t even see straight.

 

And then after he’s done that long enough for me to get used to it, he eases himself inside. It’s a slow slide, but he doesn’t stop until he’s fully inside me and I hiss in pain at the sudden intrusion. He feels bigger than usual in this position.

 

It’s not over fast enough; whatever I felt last night is long gone, leaving me hollow and cold. It’s fine and all, except everything is pointless and nothing matters and I’m really fucking tired.

 

When he’s done he stays inside me, wrapping two strong, possessive arms around me and pulling me back to him. I don’t even struggle. Sleep sounds amazing right now, I could care less how I get it.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I wake up again and am unceremoniously thrown off the bed. He throws a pregnancy spell at me, and it comes back blue.

 

Fourth time, still no dice.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Hermione is actually the one who figures out why I’m not getting pregnant—unintentionally, anyway. She was looking up potions because that's what Hermione does for entertainment, and stumbled upon the male pregnancy potion. As a muggleborn this thoroughly piqued her curiosity so she avidly began to research it.

 

Turns out, there’s one crucial ingredient that Voldemort is missing: I have to _want_ to be pregnant.

 

I scowl.

 

And he knows it, too. That’s where all the slow and gentle came from. But of course; he’d never do that without some sort of scheme behind it. But he’s a fool for thinking that faking love would do the trick. I suppose it was inevitable though; Voldemort doesn’t know a single thing about love, and never will.

 

I console myself with this thought.

 

All this just means is that there’s no way in hell I’m getting pregnant, not matter how hard he tries or whatever plots he comes up with. I have to want it. I have to genuinely want it. No forcing my hand, or using my friends as bait or trying to trick me into it.

 

Because one thing is for sure—I would never love Voldemort.

 

So he’s shit out of luck.

 

I don’t tell him that I know this, of course.

 

He’s bent me over the dining room table and he takes all his frustrations out on me, as if that would help him at all with his new goal. It hurts, of course it does, and I don’t get off because I never get off when we have sex, and for some reason he gets even more mad about that. He calms down after he’s done, and I’m lying face down on the table, resting my forehead against the cool wood and refusing to look anywhere else. And then, to my unending disbelief, he gets me off. With his hand. As in the dark lord actually deigned to give someone a hand job. He took the opportunity to also litter my neck with dozens of hickeys, as if he doesn’t have enough marks on me already.

 

I’ll admit it was… weirdly considerate of him, but being nice is not nearly enough.

 

He probably knows this, because he stares at me for an uncomfortably long amount of time, before he promptly leaves me there like that, and walks out of the room.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Suffice to say that attempt worked about as well as the others. I am still glowing blue.

 

He doesn’t take me like that again.

 

It’s as if all the brutal and horrible and painful sex was all just a dream. He doesn’t humiliate me in front of his death eaters, or humiliate me when we’re alone. No whipping, no chains. No raging, out of control cum fetish. Obviously he finishes inside me every time, but I’m not licking it out of a bowl, or his fingers, or even swallowing it out of his cock. He hasn’t made me give him a blowjob in weeks. I suppose that would sort of defeat the purpose of trying to get me pregnant.  I could get used to his whole baby thing, I think.

 

Because he’s never going to get that baby—but I’m definitely going to enjoy seeing him try.

 

When we fuck it’s slow and almost always in the bed. It’s not nearly as violent as it used to be, but it’s not the most pleasant thing, either. It’s not enough, obviously, but it is a nice change. I’m certainly not complaining. The sex isn’t usually enough to get me off, but he actually seems somewhat insistent in seeing that I do after. Actually getting off when we have sex is doing wonders for my mood—and grades, as it were. I may actually pass Potions at this rate.

 

But that’s about all he can really do.

 

He can take me slowly and gently and make me love every minute of it; he’s very good at sex, this should be obvious. And he can tuck me under his chin and rub my hair until I’m purring in contentment, and do all the other sudden and spontaneous nice things he does, but it’s never going to be enough. I’m laughing uncontrollably on the inside. On the outside, I simply look at him with my usual indifference. 

 

Because at the end of the day, if he asked me if I wanted to have sex with him and I knew I had an actual choice; I would say no. I would say no and book it down the street and get the fuck out of dodge.

 

And anyway, Voldemort doesn’t know _how_ to love. He can imitate it, kind of, in a very mentally challenged way, but in some ways it’s almost pitiful to see him try. 

 

He’s clearly on the learning curve though, and if there’s anything I know about Voldemort it’s that he’s a fucking genius and people don’t call him that for no reason.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” I gasp, aroused beyond belief after he’s spent what seems like hours torturing me (in the good way… when did I start having to clarify that?) with his fingers and mouth. I’m practically in tears already. “Please… please… fuck me, please—

 

He’s still incapable of ignoring me when I beg, and within moments that enormous cock is lined up against my entrance. I shiver with anticipation, and when he plunges into me all at once, there is perhaps even a small spark of arousal that accompanies the shit ton of pain.

 

He doesn’t move, throwing my leg onto his shoulder, leaving me embarrassingly wide open. He’s looking, of course, and normally his impatience would get the better of him and he’d be fucking me until all I wanted is for him to stop. He doesn’t; I see the satisfaction in his eyes as he looks upon himself, fully inside me, yet he appears to have no sense of urgency.

 

I’m actually a little annoyed. I could use a little urgency right now.

 

I clench against him, _hard,_ and he thrusts into me almost involuntarily in reaction. He’s so close I can feel his labored breath against my neck. One hand is holding my leg over his shoulder and he rests his other elbow by my head. We’re—impossibly close. He pulls away to straighten up again, still unmoving, looking at me with an unreadable expression.

 

“Tell me how much you want it,” he demands.

 

This, of course, is familiar.

 

“I want it so bad,” I repeat, diligently. “I want your cock inside me, I want you to fuck me until I can’t see straight—I want to feel it when you come inside me… and I want you to make me lick it all back up after.” That one usually does the trick, but an… irritated expression crosses his face, and he drops my leg.

 

This is all very bewildering.

 

He gives me one last frustrated and conflicted look, and then he fucking _pulls out_ , abruptly and without any warning, and while I’m hissing in pain (he is far too big to be doing that so suddenly) he literally leaves me there, hanging.

 

I’m blinking at the wall, unseeing and feeling as if my mind has just crashed and needs a reboot. 

 

What the hell just happened?

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

He doesn’t summon me for days. A weekend passes and my necklace doesn’t burn at all. I’m starting to get a little worried, actually. Can he break a magical contract? I have no idea, I don’t think so. So he can’t go back on his word, even if he’s done with me. Right? I guess he could renegotiate it. Wait, can he? I’m thinking myself in circles.

 

Either way, that was the deal, after all. He’d stop his plan for mudblood and muggle annihilation in exchange for—me. Handed over on a silver platter with little to no fanfare. I had no idea about any of this until the day someone decided it might be a little necessary to tell me, but after a while I ended up hearing what the terms were. I was his, pretty much. He owned me—he bought me, actually, which makes my blood boil still.

 

I think it was him who actually asked for it first. Well, asked for me. He knew I was a horcrux from the very first moment he saw me in the graveyard and I suppose he would do anything in his power to have me under him; even giving up his plot to destroy all muggles and blood traitors. I don’t know if this means that he really wanted me, or really didn’t care all that much about killing off the muggles.

 

But anyway, whether he wants me or not he still can’t return to hunting and killing muggleborns.

 

(It doesn’t escape my notice that the terms of agreement were no hunting of muggles and muggleborns, nothing about stopping his plan for world domination. I guess I wasn’t worth that much.)

 

I’m wary and on edge the longer it goes on. An unpredictable Voldemort is the worst kind of Voldemort. I’d prefer him in his usual murderous rage than this. Or even his usual murderous kinky rage. At least his come play is pretty predictable.

 

He does finally summon me, after a whole week of radio silence.

 

We’re in one of his personal chambers, and he’s standing (fully clothed, might I add) by a table with a little blue bottle on it.

 

He beckons me over, holding it up.

 

I can take the hint, and I take it from his hands. I get a whiff of it; the same smell as the last pregnancy potion. Does he think that giving me another one will actually further his unending and impossible quest for a baby? Well, whatever. I gulp it all down and place the bottle back on the table. I don’t say anything; if he wants me to do something he’ll tell me.

 

But apparently he’s taken a vow of silence in the interim of days since I last saw him, and he doesn’t say anything at all.

 

I chance a glance up at him—and he’s just, staring at me. Blatantly. For no apparent reason.

 

I take a wary step back.

 

“What?” I say, finally, when the silence gets unbearable.

 

He takes a step forward and I flinch, ready for the hit, or the curse, or whatever punishment he has for me for talking back. I haven’t talked back since the summer before my fifth year; learned that lesson really fucking quick. For the most part, I say absolutely nothing at all, unless prompted. But when I open my eyes again his hands haven’t even left his sides, and there’s no wand.

 

He’s still not saying anything, and I search wildly through my mind for what he could possibly want me to do. Well, there’s an obvious answer.

 

I look away, and start unbuttoning my shirt from top to bottom—leaving the tie, because he likes when that comes off last.

 

“No,” he says, finally breaking his stupid silence, when I’ve just gotten about halfway there.

 

I look up; I’ve absolutely no idea what to do. He’s never made me fucking guess about it—the moment he summons me there’s always a very obvious reason for it, and that reason usually ends with him coming inside me.

 

I decide to just ask. I have no other options. “What do you want?” I snap, maybe a little too hard, but it only goes to show how freaked out I am.

 

“Dinner,” he replies.

 

My brain shuts down, and I wait a few moments for it to reboot. I stare at him incredulously. “Um?”

 

“Dinner,” he repeats, sounding annoyed. “Is on the table.”

 

There is no way I’m sitting at a table and eating dinner with Lord Voldemort. Except I am. And it’s about as horrible as I had assumed. The food isn’t bad, but that probably has more to do with the house elves than any consideration towards me, but everything else was bad as you could possibly imagine it to be.

 

I am drowning in silence, absently moving the untouched food back and forth on my plate.

 

“ _Was it not to your liking_?” Comes a deadly, volcanic voice from my right.

 

I still immediately, dropping the fork onto the plate, and taking my hands off the table. “ _It was fine,”_ I reply, quickly, in the snake tongue. “ _I… already ate_.”

 

Not a lie. I did actually eat already. I am very aware of the fact that I never know when my next meal will be with him—or what, for that matter.

 

He narrows his eyes at me, but doesn’t press the issue. “You’re to dine with me from now on,” it sounds less like a question and more like a demand.

 

I can’t keep the complete, unadulterated horror that surges to my face at the thought of having to go through this unbearable silence every night. I mask it with a face of neutrality after a second, looking back down.

 

He frowns, and his tone is utterly poisonous, “ _Does this displease you_?”

 

“ _No_ ,” I shake my head wildly, terrified. “ _It’s fine_.”

 

I’m getting the feeling I’m going to be saying that word a lot. Why is he making me talk to him? I’m pretty sure he prefers me completely silent, willing and submissive. I prefer it that way too; letting him pull my body where he wants is infinitely easier than having to come up with words he wants to hear. One of those requires considerably less brainpower than the other.

 

I don’t look at him, staring down at my plate still entirely full of food. I don’t know what the hell has come over me, but I would rather be face down on the bed letting him fuck me into the mattress than have to sit here having him just… stare at me. He's looking at me in the same way he always does, hungry and ravenous, as if he'd prefer to have me laid out on the table instead of the food. He's expecting something, but I don't know what. 

 

“ _I would be honored to dine with you_ ,” I add, hoping this is the right thing to say.

 

It’s not.

 

He drops his utensil and I flinch violently at the sound; it’s practically an ingrained response. Any sudden movement he makes normally has me jumping in fear—and normally he likes that. But right now it only seems to piss him off even more.

_I’m fucking up,_ I think wildly. I used to be so good at doing whatever he wanted, and now I can’t seem to get anything right. I’m impressed I’m not dead yet, or being punished until I wish I was dead, at any rate.

 

He stands up in a fluid motion, and I grip the edge of my seat very tightly, wondering if this is going to be the moment he finally loses it.

 

Voldemort pulls me out of my chair, before swiftly pivoting and leaving the room. I assume this is a command to follow him. We return to the bedroom, and it surprises me that I haven’t seen it all week. I haven’t been here all week. I’m struck with a sudden concern that he has been using this time to somehow coerce me into getting pregnant. But I reassure myself that this is utterly impossible; he must be scheming something else. World domination, most likely.

 

He sits on the edge of the bed, and I wait by the door for his command. Sometimes he wants me to crawl to him. I can’t tell if this is one of those days.

 

“Come here,” he says, but he doesn’t tell me to crawl, so I walk.

 

When I’m standing in front of him I have a split second where I wonder what to do. His legs are parted, which might mean he wants me to get on my knees and suck him off. On the other hand, he hasn’t told me to, so maybe that’s not what he wants? With a mental shrug I decide that no one’s ever turned down a blowjob, so I sink to my knees in front of him. I see a flicker of desire and lust in his eyes, so I assume this is the right decision.

 

I make quick work of his pants, unfastening them and pulling out his cock. It springs free and I immediately take it in my hands, put my mouth on it; automatic and robotic, but still just the way he likes it. And he does like it. He’s pulling at my hair and slamming me down onto his cock before I even get a minute in or two of sucking him by myself. It’s not the worst he’s ever fucked my mouth but it’s not awesome either, and it’s starting to get hard to breathe and I’m fighting down my gag reflex more than I usually do. I can feel the burn in the back of my nose with great relief; tears are almost always what do him in.

 

But when they start spilling down in earnest he rips me off him. Startled, I end up choking and dry heaving for a couple seconds, blinking the tears out of my eyes and sucking greedily for air.

 

It was a fine blowjob—everything he likes, executed perfectly.

 

I blink up at him, slow and detached.

 

He pulls me to my feet and lays me out on the bed. I let him, limp and compliant, trying as much as possible not to fight him, or do anything that could be considered fighting him. He leans down and presses his lips to mine, and I open when he wants me to; lie there and let him explore my mouth. And when he takes my hand and places it on his dick I am very sure to fondle him just the way he likes it, firm at the bottom but soft at the head.

 

He tugs my pants down and I lift up to let them slide off easier, and with his other hand he—he takes my free hand and brings it to his cheek, sliding into his hair. He releases it, and I have no idea what the hell to do. He doesn’t like it when I touch him and he hasn’t told me to, and this is far too intimate than I’ve ever touched him before.

 

I don’t know what else to do, so I place it limply on the nape of his neck. It seems like a—a mock imitation of making love.

 

I mean, he certainly makes love to me. Superficially anyway. He can take me slowly and gently and in a way that most people would consider ‘love making’. Of course, I participate in this as minimally and mechanically as possible, so it’s really more of a one-sided love making. It looks like he wants me to participate… but I really don’t know how. All I’ve ever known of sex is what I d with him, and none of it can be considered gentle, or referred to as anything even marginally approaching ‘love making’.

 

Whatever he wants to happen is not working, and I know when he grows frustrated because he pulls me up and throws me face down onto the bed.

 

I don’t even complain; I’d much rather him take me from behind. This way I don’t have to look at his face.

 

He shoves my pants out of the way and spells off the rest of my clothing. I’m not at all surprised that he doesn’t bother with any kind of prep. There’s enough moisture to make it possible but not enough to make it good. This is so familiar though it almost numbs the pain. I’m surprised it took him this long, actually. I can see him getting more and more frustrated when I don’t do what he wants—even though he won’t tell me what it is—and when he gets frustrated he takes it out on me. Well, if it was caused by his death eaters he takes it out on them, but then also on me.

 

I lie as still as possible through all of it, without making a sound. On a scale of one to ten it’s probably like a six or so, which means it’s going to hurt for at least a few days. The friction of his thrusts starts to grow smooth; slicked and fluid, which means I’m probably bleeding. His thrusts are getting faster though, which means he’s about to finish. I can feel the hot spurting of fluid, burning with the unnatural feeling of whatever fertility potion he’s trying now, almost like a brand on my insides. I ignore it though, even when I feel it leaking out around him, seeping into the sheets.

 

He lays there for some time, covering me completely, his breath tickling the soft hairs on my nape. I pull my head out of the covers eventually, looking to the side with a vacant expression, wondering how long it’s going to take until he falls asleep. I’m estimating about three more times, depending on whatever he’s been up to today. I’m kind of hoping he takes me on my back next time. Not that I want to look at his face, but I can probably get away with looking over his shoulder and continuing my game of ceiling tetris.

 

He wraps his arms around me, and then he rolls us until I’m on my side, and he’s pressed behind me, still completely sheathed in me. It’s uncomfortable, but a far cry from the positions I used to have to try and sleep in, so I clench my eyes shut and try to escape from here.

 

“ _Harry_ ,” he whispers, and my eyes snap open in both surprise and alarm.

 

I stiffen involuntarily, very concerned over what might happen next. He hasn’t called me by my name since that one time he tried to drug me into having a baby. I can only imagine why he’s doing it now.

 

He rolls his hips; I bite my lip and a look of pain crosses my features when I feel his cock drive deeper into me, an almost inaudible whimper escapes my mouth.

 

“ _Does that hurt_?” He asks, in that same tone.

 

Is this a trick question? Either way, I feel like the answer he’s looking for is:

 

“Yes.”

 

He doesn’t do it again though, or ask me to tell him how it feels, or push me face down and tell me to take it like a good boy. He doesn’t do anything.

 

And then, defying all logic, he pulls out. Slowly, even. He places soft, almost apologetic kisses down my neck afterwards, bewildering me further.

 

I swallow with some difficulty, refusing to look at him even though I can tell he’s staring down at me. I hold out valiantly; he has to turn my chin and force me to look at him until I do. He’s just—regarding me. Not saying anything. I blink up at him, hiding my alarm behind a lifeless, hollow look. He leans down and takes my bottom lip in his, rolling it slightly before entering my pliant mouth. It’s nice enough that my eyes slip closed again and I meet his tongue once or twice with my own.

 

Afterwards he returns to his position behind me, holding me so tightly against him that

 

a) there is not an inch of skin we’re not touching

 

and b) I can’t breathe

 

It’s obvious in this position to feel his arousal, growing hard again against my back. He doesn’t appear to want to do anything about it, which is perhaps the most bewildering thing out of this mind-fuck of a night. He settles in against me, and for all intent purposes, falls asleep.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Like I said about that learning curve; Voldemort can clearly learn anything he puts his mind to. Even faking love. He pretends almost perfectly—aside from the fact that every single thing he does always has an ulterior motive and I’m perfectly aware that he’s utterly incapable of feeling positive emotions. And anyway, he can pretend all he wants. Hell, he can fall in love if he wants—that’s not going to change anything. I’m still going to hate him. Just because he’s being nice suddenly doesn’t mean he hasn’t completely ruined my life from the day I was born and continued to do so until the day I was handed over to him; after which he didn’t just ruin it, but fucking blew it up into oblivion.

 

I wake up as long sunlight panels the side of my face in filtered warmth. It’s the weekend, so he doesn’t have to return me at the crack of dawn, but I don’t think I’ve ever slept in like this anyway.

 

I don’t know what time it is, but it must be rather late. The sun seems high in the sky, but I can’t tell from here. Voldemort is no longer pressed impossibly close behind me; he is… on top of me, watching me with dark, calculating eyes. I stir, roll onto my back, and then blink up at him. Again with the staring.

 

I don’t say anything—what am I supposed to say?

 

He lowers his lips onto mine, and plies my legs apart with his hands, settling between them. While he claims my mouth one slicked finger finds its way to my entrance, teasing lightly at the ring of muscle. My eyes flutter closed, and when he works in two I wrap both hands in his hair and pull him closer, legs spreading wider to allow him more room. He plunges them into me, nice and slow, moving down to mouth against the hollow of my neck.

 

His thrusts are shallow and cautious, as if he doesn’t want to hurt me; as if he hadn’t fucked me raw to the point of bleeding last night. Bleeding more than usual, even.

 

I ignore the pain, it is not nearly as bad as it could be, and I open wider for him and pull him closer and make sounds when I know he wants to hear them. It is all rather mechanical—but of course it is, it always is. I might get off on this one, but it won’t be of my own volition. It’ll just be… the end result of being stimulated correctly for a certain amount of time.

 

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and I look away as he positions himself to enter me. 

 

When he doesn’t, I tear my eyes from the far wall to see him poised between my splayed legs, staring down at his own fingers. They are, predictably, covered in a mess of bodily fluids. As far as I'm concerned it's gross, but usually he likes it. He’s looking down at them as if this has never happened before.

 

He gets up after that, and I lift my head to stare incredulously. He appears to be coming back, wandering into the bathroom and then back out after a moment, carrying some kind of jar. I don’t pay it too much attention, assuming it’s just another kind of lubrication oil.

 

But then he pushes two fingers back into me and I almost scream in pain.

 

Holy shit that stuff burns. I hiss and squeeze my eyes shut, fisting the bed sheets. I remind myself that this is definitely not the shittiest thing he’s ever done to me, on the grand scale of things. It might not even make top ten; this doesn’t make it any less painful living through it.

 

Still, aside from the stinging pain he actually seems to be… fingering me very cautiously. He pulls them out, and after a moment returns with something cold covering his fingers. I don’t quite keep down the noise of pain I make, and he leans up to catch the sound with his mouth. When he repeats this process multiple times, I realize he’s not trying to finger fuck me for the fun of it (as usual) but is coating the inside of my passage with some kind of healing salve.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” I breathe, when I realize what it is. I pull away, looking up at him very curiously.

 

He looks back, impassive, gaze giving nothing away.

 

His long, agile fingers probe deeper, and I wince as the burn crawls farther inside me.

 

“Why are you doing this?” Slips out of me, before I can pull it back.

 

He regards me deeply, for so long I think he won’t reply. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Harry.” He says at length.

 

This is perhaps the worst joke I’ve heard all year. Which is saying something—Ron tells very bad jokes.

 

I’m fairly sure my disbelief is evident on my face; something flashes in his eyes before he’s leaning down again, kissing me slowly. When we break apart my expression has turned back into a neutral indifference.

 

He returns me that afternoon. On a weekend. He still had over twenty-four hours to have me.

 

I decide it’s foolish to read too far into it.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

The lack of summoning begins to get disconcerting.

 

They are coupled with a horrible suspicion and a horrible school year. Snape is more unbearable than usual. Dumbledore wants me to come to his office. Draco Malfoy is a death eater. Shit is real. I’m dreading the upcoming Yule holidays; the memory of my unending time at the dark lord’s manor during summer still fresh and terrifying in my mind. More than that, the I'm dreading the actual holiday itself. Dark wizards apparently don't celebrate Christmas the way normal people do, instead they kidnap innocent people and rape and torture them as some kind of offering to dark magic. Maybe they even eat them. I wouldn't put it past those fuckers. Fortunately Voldemort has always been too possessive of me to let anyone else besides him touch me on that day, but it's still a sucky day, all in all. School is literally the only reprieve I have from him. I don’t know what I’m going to do when he has me all day everyday.

 

Honestly I’m more pissed about Dumbledore. Who does he think he is, calling me to his office as if everything’s okay? Everything is not okay, and it is almost entirely his fault. I don’t delusion myself into thinking it was the Minister who so merrily signed my life away to a mass-murderer. The Minister would have negotiated for more power and keeping the Ministry. He doesn’t care at all about muggles and muggleborns if there is personal capitalist gain involved. But I can imagine who _would._

 

I crush the stupid note in my hand, more incensed than I’ve been in a long time.

 

Voldemort never makes me mad; he makes me hate him and hate life and hate everyone in it and everything about it, but I don’t really get angry at him. I’m sort of resigned at this point to his constant volatile presence. He's a total asshole, but at this point I'm so used to it I don't even care. Meanwhile, Dumbledore manages to elicit the emotion where even the dark lord can’t—in the space of a couple minutes, at that.

 

Hermione leans over my shoulder, curious and concerned. I don’t want her concern. She doesn’t know anything.

 

To that end, I don’t want to _tell_ her anything.

 

The months continue.

 

I ignore Dumbledore. Voldemort continues his crusade to drive me to into insanity via constant suspicion—and here I thought he’d manage that with the worst kind of sex imaginable. Quite the opposite. It’s as if his new goal in life is to get me off as many times as possible. Worse; he’s beginning to get good at it. There’s only so long I can sit there being compliant until it starts to feel good.

 

I hate him. I hate that he knows me so well. I hate that I can see the green flecks in his eyes when he leans close to me, I hate that he keeps asking me to _talk._

Every time I do it only makes him mad; what do you mean, tell me what you want? ‘I fucking hate you, you stupid crazy psychopath, get the fuck away from me, that’s what I want’.

 

I can’t say this, obviously, I don’t really want to die a painful and torturous death under his hand.

 

But I have no other words to give him.

 

All his favorites; all the things he loves to hear me say to him have lost all their meaning. Granted, they never had any in the first place, but he always knew that and it never bothered him before. Just the fact that he could make me say them at all was what got him off; my unwillingness was what he wanted to see, my unwillingness and the fact that he could make me do it regardless. He got off on the fact that he was the one to incur the pain that I felt at having to submit to him like this—all the shame and humiliation and horror.

 

I blink, suddenly.

 

When did that ever stop happening? When did I stop caring what he did either way? I think on this past year—before his strange turn about-face. My mind comes back with a lot of boredom, a lot of generic replies, a lot of perfectly executed sex—and a lot of ceiling tetris. Man, I’m so glad his whole house is tiled like that.

 

I shake my thoughts away from tetris. When was the last time Voldemort actually… _got_ to me? The way he used to? He used to have me bawling in fear and pain, begging him to stop, shaking and whimpering and trying to ineffectually grasp my way out of his grip. And he loved every minute of it.

 

Well, there was the whole pregnancy debacle. I was genuinely afraid that first time.

 

But after I realized how impossible his latest obsession/kink was, it joined the rest of his obsessions/kinks in a haze of disinterest.

 

He has me on his desk, facing him, legs slung over his shoulders. He’s ramming into me with a force that makes all the probably important papers on his desk go flying, along with a few quills and who knows what else. It hasn’t been this rough in a while, but there is dangerous anger in his eyes and a frustration that leaves me bewildered.

 

Frustration with me?

 

But what have I done? The moment I portkeyed here I took my clothes off—leaving the tie—and bent myself over his desk. This did not have its usual effect of a subsequent violent fuck, so I reached back to spread my own cheeks, my own fingers playing against my entrance. It was with great surprise that I realized that it wasn’t wet at all; no come slick and sticky inside me, drooling out with my prodding fingers. Either way this seemed to do the trick, because before long he had flipped me over, hauled both my legs over him and plunged himself in to the hilt.

 

My point is that I have executed everything down to perfection—and he is still, irrationally, illogically _unsatisfied._

 

I clench my fingers around the edge of his desk to keep from flying off with the rest of the inhabitants of his desk; with the intensity of his fucking, it might actually be a legitimate fear.

 

I watch him with disbelief and a sense of trepidation as I see the anger extrapolate in his eyes, growing into an uncontrollable rage as he drives into me, as his satisfaction continues to allude him. My mind is still racing, as I try to find something that will satisfy his hunger—for, for whatever the fuck it is that he’s so fixated on. Crying, maybe? But that hasn’t been working. I could beg him to stop—I could plead and beg and pretend as if I actually care either way—but he hasn’t asked me to do any of it. Normally there is some kind of prompting from him.

 

He comes, finally, buried deep inside me as he claims my lips with a worrying amount of fervor. I obediently keep my mouth open for the invasion, letting his tongue explore my mouth, let him suck and bite my bottom lip until it grows swollen and ragged red.

 

I’m still staring up at the ceiling when I realize he’s staring at me, again. Not even surveying his handiwork with a look of triumphant enjoyment. He drops my legs but I don’t close them—the sight of it usually instills some sort of gratification in him. I can feel it without having to see it; the slickness of his release, no doubt accompanied with a rather judicious amount of blood. It’s been a really long time since he fucked me that hard, and I was more unprepared for it than usual. My breath is ragged and slow, and I can’t seem to catch it.

 

Holy shit.

 

It’s been a really long time.

 

“Harry,” he starts, looking conflicted.

 

This also strikes me as strange; when did I stop being ‘Potter’?

 

I draw my gaze down to him, blinking at him owlishly. I don’t know if I like the expression on his face—it’s a far and radical change from what I’m used to, so I’m not sure how to feel. The frustrated anger has left him, giving way to a stricken look of… anxiety? I can’t tell—I feel lightheaded, actually. I think I might be getting a headache. Or that’s just all the blood rushing back to my head after I've been basically bent in half for the past twenty minutes. 

 

“Harry…” he begins again, looking down to where I feel like I actually might be bleeding out. “Harry, I didn’t mean to—

 

I blink up furiously at the ceiling, unable to tell if it’s just the usual residual excess bodily fluids or if there’s something abnormal. It’s been so long I can’t tell. It all feels warm and sticky either way. Except when I rub my legs together it’s not the sticky, tacky feeling of semen clinging to my skin; it’s slick and smooth, like lube. A lot of lube.

 

Except we didn’t use any lube.

 

The dark lord’s face has gone from wary to completely concerned and—fearful?

 

I look down.

 

Oh.

 

Oh shit.

 

Maybe I actually _am_ bleeding out.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

The doctor gives us a very unimpressed look.

 

He doesn’t know who we are, of course, not only because I’m glamoured into another generic set of features and no one knows what the dark lord looks like, but also because he is a muggle. As in we are in a muggle hospital. As in Lord Voldemort has stepped _into_ a muggle hospital.

 

This would be more bewildering to me if I wasn’t suffering from severe blood loss and was still feeling incredibly disoriented and out of it. But as I sit there in a haze, thinking about the mind-blowing position we’re currently in, I can at least see some merit to it. After all, there is absolutely no possible way anyone will recognize us in the muggle world.

 

The doctor warns us about the dangers of having ‘enthusiastic rough sex’ without full preparation, and then goes on to reprimand us for not taking the proper precautions. He appears to be confounded and under the impression that we're incredibly naive and ignorant newbies to the BDSM practice, as he gives us an angry tirade on the values of safe sex and chastises us for not having done our homework on the subject. I don't think Voldemort actually knows what the doctor's talking about, and I don't enlighten him. Best not to give him any ideas. 

I sit there silently through all of this, wondering when the man will die in a fit of violent rage incurred by the dark lord. To my surprise, he simply continues on lecturing, and Voldemort is a completely silent and unreadable figure by my side. I apparently ruptured something important and had some serious internal bleeding. Again, if I wasn’t totally fucked out by blood loss I’d find this kind of hilarious. The dark lord’s dick put me in the hospital. His cock might have even done more damage to me than he’s ever been able to do with a wand. Supposedly if we hadn’t stopped the bleeding in time I might have actually had a very legitimate risk of death.

 

Well, that’s definitely one way to fulfill the prophecy.

 

There’s some more advisement on taking extra care for at least a couple weeks, maybe even stopping intercourse entirely. Apparently this also wasn’t the first time I’ve had some very dangerous internal bleeding— _obviously_ —but it was definitely the most severe. He says something about internal scarring from what amounts to be many occurrences of this, and goes on to caution us to prepare better, but I shrug that off. Whatever, who cares about scarring if you can’t see it anyway. After more warnings over the fragility of my physical health (it's not my fault I'm so small okay), the good doctor then sends us on our way with one last warning and a whole lot of lube.

 

I can’t imagine the dark lord being okay with any of this—or even sitting here silently as some muggle chastises us (but mostly him) about our violent sex life. Except this is exactly what’s happening, and when we return to his manor he doesn’t do anything else but drop me in bed.

 

He leaves for some time, returning with at least half a dozen vials.

 

I recognize most of them from the incredible amount of time I’ve managed to spend in Madame Pompfrey’s office; a blood-replenishing potion, pain-relief potion, some sort of green one I vaguely recall being used to mend open wounds, a few more I’ve never seen before and a vial of dreamless sleep.

 

I take them all with little fanfare, refusing to look anywhere near his direction.

 

The dreamless sleep works almost immediately, and I feel my eyes growing sleepy and the lingering pain disappear as the pain-relief potion takes effect. He watches this whole process without saying a word. But as I’m starting to drift off, I feel something warm and heavy smoothing against my forehead. A hand, I think, but then I’m fast asleep.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

He doesn’t even touch me for a very, very long time after that.

 

I can’t make up my mind whether this concerns me or not.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

We’re having dinner again—we have dinner every night, it’s the worst.

 

He narrows his eyes at me as if he expects me to ask him how his day was. For the most part I am completely unable to eat anything in his presence. I’m starting to noticeably lose weight. It’s not even like it’s bad food; I just can’t eat. I feel sick to my stomach, terrified and on edge.

 

I don’t really feel like eating at all, actually. In the same way I don’t feel like doing anything, ever.

 

My bag is in the other room, stuffed full with assignments. The whole ‘spending your nights getting fucked by the dark lord’ does not bode well for homework time. But ever since that one time he almost killed me with his penis, he rarely initiates intimacy these days. And if he does, it’s _really_ intimate; slow and careful in a way that has me blushing furiously the whole way through. And there are very few things he can do that can embarrass me anymore.

 

I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. I’m starting to wish—against all logical reason—for him to go back to the way he used to.

 

He was so simple then, so predictable. He wanted to fuck me, to own me, to make me submit in whatever fashion caught his fancy that day. He wanted me to beg and scream and cry for him, crawl on my knees or bend over the table. These are all commands that all accumulate to one end goal: he wants to own me, and he wants to remind me that I’m his every moment he can.

 

Is this all still some convoluted plot to get me pregnant?

 

Maybe, I wouldn’t put it past him. On the other hand, it’s been months, and he’s always been quick to cut his losses.

 

His expression is quite deadly. “You’ve not eaten your food.”

 

I look down at my plate; completely untouched. At first I just sort of pushed it around with my fork, but these days I don't even bother to lift a utensil. The incremental effort just seems like way too much for me right now. 

 

I lower my eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

 

I don’t look at him; I don’t want to see his expression.

 

“Very well.”

 

I refuse to look up, but his tone is cold enough to make me shiver.

 

The plates disappear, as do the wine glasses. I stay very still; like prey, waiting for the predator to make the first move. He stands fluidly, and leaves the room. I don’t know if he wants me to follow him; I’ve followed him, and I’ve stayed here, and he didn’t punish me for either.

 

I wait for at least ten minutes, counting the seconds under my breath as I listen closely for any sound of movement.

 

I don’t hear any.

 

I creep back to the other room; I don’t ever leave Voldemort’s personal chambers, not because I’m not allowed but because I don’t want to know who I’ll run into outside of them. Not to mention I don’t think any of the death eaters know I’m here—or even that Voldemort signed the contract at all. If he doesn’t want them to know, I’m not going to be the one to tell them. The room is about as impersonal as every other room he has. Aside from the bookshelf, which I assume is full of texts he enjoys.

 

I take a seat on one of the couches, pulling my bag from beneath.

 

I wrench out the essay assigned two weeks ago, due tomorrow. History of Magic: my worst class. It’s my remedial sleep class, which is crucial but detrimental for my grade. How much or how well I sleep is entirely dependent on Voldmort’s mercurial moods, so having an hour of extra sleep is a necessity.

 

But all this means that I don’t actually know what I’m supposed to be writing about.

 

Something about some kind of revolution in some kind of century involving some kind of magical creature.

 

I sit for what could be hours buried in my history textbook, flipping through pages and trying to skim through everything I’ve missed. It’s a lot.

 

I’m keen to listen to any sudden noises, but I don’t hear even a whisper of Voldemort for the duration I’m curled up on the couch, hunched over a textbook. It obviously isn’t working; also, I’m very tired. I’m asleep in about an hour, with nothing but an introductory paragraph written down.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

When I wake up the next morning, there’s a blanket over me and my parchment is full of an unfamiliar, but perfect illustrative scrawl, depicting an entire synopsis of the Vampire Wars of 1874.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I get a perfect grade on the paper.

 

Professor Binns is utterly ecstatic and pulls me aside to ask about me about my opinion on the state of the Bosnian vampires. ...I don't even think I know where Bosnia is. Quite frankly, I’m surprised he assumes that it’s even mine at all. Or that he doesn't remember the perfect scrawl of a perfect student he'd taught before. Maybe he just forgot about Tom Riddle? I wouldn't put it past the barmy ghost.

 

I’m not all that interested in discussing my paper; I’m more interested in why I even have a paper at all. When I left that morning I was too stunned and too late to do much else other than portkey and sprint to my first class. I’ve never actually fallen asleep deeply enough to miss the 5am weekday cut. I suppose the cutoff isn’t enforced unless he’s making me stay—unless I don’t want to be there. I’m assuming; because he’s still alive, it’s 9am, and the world hasn’t ended yet.

 

I spend the entire day in an numbing haze, unable to make my mind up on how I feel.

 

In the end, the school day comes and goes and I still haven’t formed any thoughts around the fact that Lord Voldemort did my History of Magic homework. I cheated, I think hysterically. I'm sorry professor, the dark lord did my homework. If I'm finding that so funny I'm definitely losing my mind.

 

I’m lounging in my dorm room, staring sightlessly out the tower window. The world outside is held in an indeterminable stasis between day and night; obscured by a long wash of gray-white film of homogenous texture and color. It could be five at night, or five in the morning. I’m pretty sure it’s only been five minutes though. I look down and realize I’ve been fiddling with the pendant, chain loose around my fingers. I drop it like a hot coal, sitting up and staring down at myself. For the first time in a very long time there are no marks of any kind marring my body. I don’t feel gross both inside and out, sticky with semen and littered with bruises.

 

The days roll by.

 

My portkey doesn’t activate, though I find myself toying with it at odd hours of the day. I drop it the moment I recognize what I’m doing, but I always end up once again winding the chain around my finger. Why? Am I waiting to feel it burn to life?

 

This is absurd. I’m thinking about him all the time.

 

More than that, I’m thinking about what he’s up to. It’s clear that I’m fucking up. I’m no longer pleasing him—I’m somehow, impossibly, no longer what he wants. He seems to have completely washed his hands of his horcrux Harry Potter—and I am at a total loss as to why and how to fix it.

 

Because I have to fix it, somehow.

 

The fate of all the muggleborns and muggles and all the hope and peace of the world is depending on me to find a way to once more want him to stick it up my ass. This sounds utterly ludicrous, but that’s only because it’s one hundred percent true. I’m not a fool, and I’m not blind—the hours and days I spend with him have lured him into a sense of complacency. I’m his new favorite shiny toy and he dismisses all his others; and by ‘other’s I mean his plans for world domination, mass murder and torturing of innocents, etc.

 

Or I was, anyway.

 

I’m pretty sure I’m just another fascination that has stopped fascinating him.

 

I clench my hands. How? Why? What am I doing wrong? What have I done to deserve this? It might seem like a piece of freedom but I can’t live with a freedom I know I traded in for the lives of all my friends. Worse: it’s more than that. And I know it. I can’t lie to myself.

 

Before I can even think to talk myself out of it, I’m activating it in a whirl of time and space.

 

Lord Voldemort blinks up at me with some small modicum of surprise. He looks to be somewhat busy, long scrolls of parchment rolled across his desk, quill in hand. I’m at a loss as to what to do; I hadn’t exactly thought this far. I don’t even know what I wanted to accomplish with this. I should probably say something, but I don’t. He looks about as confused as I feel.

 

Instead I walk over to him, crawl into his lap and kiss him.

 

He’s frozen into place, unmoving and unresponsive, so after a moment I pull away, completely and utterly mortified. A horrible flush crawls up my neck, as I stare in total, incomprehensible horror. This doesn’t last long though; he grabs me and pulls me back, devouring my mouth. I let him. His furious intensity mellows into soft, but persistent kisses. His hands flirt with the ends of my shirt, skimming against the skin beneath but not wandering farther.

 

The proceedings which happen next still flummox me. I kiss him back, timid and docile, shyly licking into his mouth. He lets me; welcomes it, actually, one hand winding up into my hair to hold me still and the other smoothing over the back of my legs, pulling me closer. I’m cupping his head between my hands, mouthing against him slow and sweet, rolling my hips against him in time with his own. We’re snogging, is what’s happening. Like a pair of teenagers in an abandoned alcove, stealing minutes before Snape comes to drag them out.

 

We break apart; I’m still so close I can rest my forehead against his, breathing like I just maneuvered through a Wronski Feint.

 

I suck in a sudden, faltering breath. “Why did you do my paper?” I find myself asking, so quiet I could have imagined it.

 

There’s a beat. “Why did you come here?” He flips the question back to me—there is utterly no space between us; we’re nose to nose, breathing the same air.

 

I blink rapidly. What am I to say? “I… I don’t know.” I whisper; that’s the truth. I have no fucking clue why.

 

He pulls me away, studying me very closely.

 

“What do you want, Harry?”

 

The question catches me off guard, taking me a moment to formulate a response that isn’t, ‘I’d like you to stop playing fucking mind games with me, and maybe throw yourself off a bridge’.

 

“I want you to fuck me,” I say. It might be lacking in both honesty and any significant excitement, but it’s definitely the right thing to say.

 

I see his eyes darken with lust, and take it as a sign to continue.

 

“Please,” I add on, just in case. “I want it so bad.”

 

And then he’s prying me off him, to my total bewilderment. When I look up at him, there’s still a latent desire burning in his crimson eyes. I don’t get it. Why is he pushing me away?

 

Not only that, but he’s rising from his chair—and appears to be, for all intents and purposes, about to leave the room.

 

“No,” I plead, before I even know what I’m saying. "Don't go."

 

He stills, turning around very slowly, expression indifferent.

 

“What…” I pause, swallowing thickly. “What do you want?”

 

He’s still regarding me with that unreadable look; I stand there, fidgeting for some time, worried and fearful and very much so concerned. Desperate—that’s what I’m feeling. This is the feeling of total, irrevocable fear. I have to please him somehow.

 

If I don’t… I don’t even want to contemplate it. It’d be disastrous.

 

“Please tell me,” I beg, frantically, the desperation seeping into my voice. “I can’t—“ My breath hitches. “I can’t do what you want if you don’t tell me what it is.”

 

He still won’t reply. My eyes are wide and beseeching and if this doesn’t work I don’t know what will, but we can’t keep going on like this. I’m messing everything up and I don’t understand how to stop—nothing I do, no matter what I try, seems to please him anymore. And it’ll only be a matter of time until he decides I’m worthless to him and he doesn’t want me. And then the contract will be useless. And every muggleborn and muggle and good law-abiding wizard will have me to blame.

 

I walk closer, hesitant. He doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away when I raise a hand to his face.

 

“ _Please, Tom_.” I bring shivering hands to cup his cheeks, standing on my tiptoes to place my trembling lips atop his. “Tell me what you want.”

 

His arms are around me, his hands clenching sporadically against my hips. His eyes close and he makes a small noise against my mouth at the use of his name, his grip tightening to the point of painful. He pulls me away, but I grasp his arms before he can pull me any farther. I cling to him like a cat dragging its claws in the carpet, scared and terrified, unwilling to let go.

 

“I want you,” he replies, unsteady, staring deeply upon me. Searching. Pensive.

 

I give him an incredulous look, still wary and tense. “You—you have me,” I point out, quiet.

 

Is that not blatantly obvious? He practically bought me; I’m not sure how much more he can own me. I was practically a commodity for sale. A commodity contractually owned by him.

 

He releases me then, prying himself out of my grip. I’m at arms length again, at a loss as to what to do.

 

An irritated look crosses his face. And oh, do I recognize this look. My eyes dart to his hands, watching wearily for his wand to draw to me with an unforgiveable at its tip. It doesn’t, but when I look back up his irritation has grown tenfold—passing annoyance and flinging headlong into uncontrollable rage. This concerns me more; why must he be so mercurial? What the hell could I possibly be doing wrong?

 

A dark look besieges him, predictably full of livid anger. But there is also a deep seated frustration and dissatisfaction to it.

 

“Go back to school, Harry.” He says, finally. I’m so surprised I don’t know what to say. “You’ve a test tomorrow you should be studying for.”

 

How the hell does he know that?

 

I throw him a conflicted look. On the one hand, this is clearly not what he wants. It’s obvious from his features, which still bear great anger and frustration. But on the other hand, he gave me an order, and I’m supposed to follow any order he gives me.

 

I pull the pendant portkey out from under my shirt, clasping it lightly. I look down at it; my hand is shaking, just slightly. I stare down at it as if it’s the catalyst for the apocalypse. Considering the scenario, that might not be that much of an exaggeration.

 

I need to convince him. I don’t care about whatever torture he wants to subject me to—at this point, I would prefer it. It would suck, but at least I could relish in the relief of knowing that my friends are safe.

 

When it becomes clear I’m struggling to activate it, he moves to do it himself.

 

His fingers curl against mine. At the very last second, I wrench my hand out of his grip.

 

I don’t know who’s more surprised—me or him. I know I’m disobeying him, but I hold it away from him regardless.

 

“No—please no.” I plead, feeling a burn behind my eyes. I don’t remember the last time he made me cry; normally it’s an occurrence that happens at least once a day. He gets off on it, actually. Or used to. I don’t know why it’s not working to my favor right now. “Please don’t send me back.”

 

One hand is fisted by my side shaking, the other grasped so tightly against the pendant I think I could actually break the stone; I look at him beseechingly, feeling like my frantically heart is about to bleed out.

 

“Just tell me,” I say, panicking, when he still doesn’t reply. “Whatever you want from me… I’ll do it, I promise. I’ll—I’ll do whatever you want.”

 

I think I might be crying in earnest now; I feel so numb I couldn’t be able to tell either way. This is it. This is the fate of the world right now, resting on whether I can convince Lord Voldemort that I’m still useful to him—as a whore, an outlet for his anger, a horcrux, whatever.

 

He draws closer to me, silent and indecipherable.

 

I squeeze my eyes shut, completely terrified and unprepared for whatever he has in store. Every option is horrible; it’s a lose-lose situation in every possible way.

 

He pries the necklace out of my flimsy grip.

 

I open my eyes, surprised, just in time to catch his expression before I’m taken away.

 

I don’t know what it was. 

  

 .

 

.

 

.

 

I throw the stupid thing to the ground, fall in a heap on my bed, and silently curse everything and everyone in this stupid, fucked up, wasteful shithole that is my life.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I am sullen and pissy and in a proper foul mood the entire week. People stay far, far away from me. And those who don’t are quickly ushered away by Hermione and Ron. What would I do without them, seriously.

 

“I can tell you want to ask,” I breathe out, defeated, as Ron chances another glance at me after he effectively punts Seamus out of our dorm and down the stairs.

 

Ron turns to me, shrugging. “Nah, mate.” He replies, light and easy. “I can see you don’t wanna talk about it—don’t force yourself, y’know?”

 

I give him a wan smile. “Thanks, Ron.”

 

He shrugs. “Sure, sure,” and then, “Say—you started on that Potions essay?”

 

I give him a snort of disbelief.

 

He nods sagely. “Yeah, figured as much. Listen, I was thinking we scheme Hermione into leaving hers in the common room and just copy it really quick—she won’t even notice.”

 

I smirk slightly at that. “Make sure to change the name at the top,” I remind, because I will never let him live that day down; Snape addressed him as Miss Granger the entire day, because Ron hadn't bothered to even read over his essay after he used one of the twin's instant copying spells, and had given him an assignment that still said her name on it and attempted to pass it as his own.

 

He scowls. “When will you ever let me live that down?” He whines, but saunters down with me good-naturedly anyway.

 

Turns out we don’t even have to connive Hermione to do anything. She takes one look at me and hands it over—along with all the rest of our homework for the week. Ron bows furiously in her direction; Hermione shoves him away.

 

She turns to me with a stricken, concerned look; I wonder if today is the day she tries to talk to me about it. But instead she only leans down to hug me and kiss my forehead. “Feel better soon,” she murmurs against my hair, and I almost feel tempted to lean into the touch. It’s the first touch I’ve actually enjoyed in a very long time.

 

“I’ll try,” I answer, feebly. This means no. She smiles anyway.

 

I feel a little better after that, though. All hope isn’t truly lost. There are other ways to defeat the dark lord, and I know each and every one—I know the location of each and every horcrux. I can feel them, as if they’re all a part of me, no matter where they are, in the same way I can always feel him. I guess, in that regard, I really am the only one who has the power to defeat him. A power that he gave me, at that. I snort. My life truly is one gigantic cosmic joke.

 

A cosmic joke that gets progressively worse as the week continues.

 

It’s Friday, and normally that would instill within me a violent terror where there should be unadulterated excitement over two days without school. But I haven’t been all that fearful of them in some time—don’t even notice them anymore, now that I’m not summoned to his side for the whole two days. Hermione, and the rest of the student body, think it’s some sort of elaborate training to defeat the dark lord that keeps me away for days and hours on end. Training to defeat him in the bedroom, maybe.

 

We’re leaving our final class when I hear a tinny voice shouting my name incessantly down the halls.

 

“Go on ahead,” I wave Ron off. “But don’t start the game without me, okay? It’s not fair if you all already have a head start.”

 

Because we take our exploding snap very seriously in Gryffindor tower, okay.

 

A little first year trots up to me, completely out of breath. I blink. Why the hell is he running, anyway? He could have just walked.

 

“I have a message you,” he wheezes, doubled over.

 

I blink. “…Okay?”

 

“From Professor Dumbledore.” He adds, panting.

 

My eyes darken and my mood takes a swan dive.

 

I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to him ever again—or see his face, for that matter. I’ve effectively ignored him all year. I don’t want to hear what he has to say; whatever paltry excuses he has for signing my life away. I don’t want to know what I’m worth to him—and to the world at large, apparently.

 

“That’s great,” I turn around, dismissive. “Tell him I’m busy.”

 

“But—!” The boy looks up at me, gaping. “He asked!”

 

“Yeah—and I’m saying I’m busy.”

 

“Dumbledore asked me to come get you, _specifically,_ right now. He said to come immediately.” The Ravenclaw insists.

 

“Tell him to fuck off,” I retort, flippant and completely beyond caring at this point. Let Dumbledore do whatever the fuck he wants.

 

The first-year looks utterly horrified that I could ever disgrace the benevolent and all-wondrous headmaster. “He… he _insisted_.” The boy urges. “He told me to get Professor Snape to bring you if you didn’t reply.”

 

I snort. “Let him,” I turn around at that, waving a careless hand.

 

The boy continues to sputter behind me, but I ignore it.

 

True to form, the towering figure of Professor Snape finds me as I’m leaning out of an alcove, looking down upon the beautiful, snow cloaked grounds. I figured he'd show up eventually, so there was no point in trying to escape to the common room when he'd just drag me out of there anyway. I'm two parts enjoying the scenery, one part idly entertaining the idea of my death via five hundred foot drop. That’d be something they’d talk about for centuries, I bet. Did you know there was a boy who fell out this window? Yeah, it wasn’t the Astronomy Tower! Bet he was just drunk or sleeping or something.

 

Or just feeling like life is an enormous waste of time.

 

“Professor,” I greet, weary and hollow.

 

His expression pinches at the sight of me—I wonder, will he detect house points? Much like the dark lord, my continued apathy over anything and everything he tries to insult me with only elicits his ire further. It's funny; I've spent most of my life intentionally trying to piss him off, and now that I've stopped caring I've actually managed to infuriate him beyond belief. But Snape isn’t the dark lord, so I don’t even bother trying to figure out what his problem is.

 

“Mr. Potter,” he drawls, acidly. “I believe it has been called to your attention that your presence is required in the Headmaster’s office.”

 

“Is it?” I reply, slowly, returning to look out the window.

 

“Now is not the time for your insolent attitude, you stupid child,” he growls, grabbing me by the arm and hauling me off my seat.

 

I stagger, but don’t do anything to try to get out of his grip. He releases me eventually, and with great indifference do I follow him. He leads me through the winding halls, strangely stiff-backed and—and anxious? But when is Snape ever anything but moody and pissy? We finally make it to the gargoyles, and the scene that greets me in the office is enough to completely shatter my indifference, and also maybe my sanity.

 

Because Lord Voldemort is lounging on one of Dumbledore’s heinous paisley printed couches, an untouched cup of tea in front of him, expression downright murderous.

 

Dumbledore is opposite of him, popping a lemon sherbet into his mouth and sipping on his earl grey.

 

I freeze, everything in me growing cold.

 

They both turn at our entrance, and belatedly I realize why Snape was acting so strangely. Dumbledore looks upon me with a convoluted expression of regret, sadness, and concern—fuck him. And Voldemort… something flickers in the dark lord’s eyes when he catches sight of me, but it returns to it’s usual, vesuvian rage soon enough.

 

“What’s the meaning of this, Dumbledore?” He drawls, callous and annoyed. “I thought I made it very clear that Harry Potter is no longer of any interest to me.”

 

My heart seems to convulse and constrict upon itself at his words; my mind has run blank.

 

No.

 

This can’t be happening.

 

I’ve well and truly failed. This is it—it’s over. It’s all over.

 

“Ah, yes that’s right,” Dumbledore agrees, amiable. “One in exchange for the other, no? I suppose that’s a fair deal.”

 

“And I agree,” retorts Voldemort, curt and dismissive. “The ring, old man.”

 

I stir at that, following Voldemort’s gaze as it turns to where Dumbledore is holding a small, almost insignificant looking ring in one hand. Upon further inspection, it's pretty damn ugly. 

 

“But that’s not entirely your decision, is it?” Dumbledore continues, all but ignoring his response. 

 

Dark red eyes narrow down at the headmaster.

 

Dumbledore turns to me again. I feel like a deer stuck in the grasp of death, staring down into bright white headlights. “Mr. Potter is just as much a part of this deal as you are.”

 

“I don’t recall _Mr. Potter_ signing any contract, do you?” He ripostes, loftily. “That was all you.”

 

“Indeed.” Dumbledore intones, gravely, looking genuine and insensibly saddened. “And I do not wish to make that same mistake again.”

 

I blink rapidly, looking between the two of them and trying to make sense of just what the hell is going on. Snape at least seems just as confused as I do. Hah, he might actually even be in a shittier position than I am. Both Voldemort and Dumbledore in the same room—didn’t he swear fealty to both? I can imagine that it might get a little… difficult to keep that act up.

 

Fortunately for him though, neither of them are paying him much mind.

 

No, all their attention is fixated on me.

 

“Does that not sound fair, Harry?” Dumbledore continues again, turns his gaze to me.

 

My mouth moves, but nothing comes out. “…What?” I finally rasp, quiet and confused.

 

“I leave this decision up to you, my dear boy.” I would normally take offense to that moronic petname, but I’m still trying to process what the hell is going on.

 

“What—what decision?”

 

“The renegotiating of the contract,” Dumbledore explains, patiently. “I believe it would be far more equitable if you were the one who decided whether to accept the changes or not.”

 

“Oh,” I say, thickly, unable to come up with a better response.

 

A long piece of parchment drifts into the air and comes wandering over to me, followed quickly by a quill. I look down at the swimming letters, still in so much shock that I can barely comprehend what they all mean. It’s… it’s a contract. One that probably bears great similarities to whatever one condemned me to a life under the control of Lord Voldemort. But this one does not say anything about that—it simply says that the terms of the standing agreement will be changed only in the nature of the subject given to the dark lord. Already, his signature is inlaid at the bottom, effectively signing me away for this—this new subject.

 

A ring. Instead of me, it will be a ring.

 

“Fine,” I answer, faintly, as things start to click into place.

 

The ring. That must be a horcrux—there is nothing else that Voldemort would ever possibly consider trading me in for. One receptacle of his soul for another. Is that all I am to him now? Just another object whose only value is the part of his soul housed inside of it?  Even more concerning; why does that matter to me? Why do I care what kind of regard Voldemort holds me in at all?

 

I look up at Dumbledore, wondering what his end game is with this.

 

Because I know he might have that ring—but it is most assuredly no longer a horcrux.

 

I can feel them far better than Voldemort can, which is surprising but I guess not entirely so. He is the master soul after all. He doesn’t seem to be able to feel them as intimately as I do; cannot feel their very location, no matter how far that may be.

 

Can’t feel when they’ve been destroyed.

 

 _He’s find out eventually,_ I want to say to the old man. _And what do you think he’ll do once he does?_

He might be contractually obligated not to kill off the muggles and muggleborns—but that’s to say nothing of everyone else.

 

“Fine,” I repeat, rolling the contract shut. And then, looking up at the headmaster, “But I’d prefer to talk to him alone.”

 

This is clearly not something he expected me to say—that either of them expected me to say, as it were.

 

“Are you sure, Harry?” Dumbledore replies, hesitant. “That may not be an advisable course of action; it could present a great danger to you—

 

“What could? Being alone in the same room as him?” I snort. “That’s a little late, don’t you think?”

 

Behind me, I hear Snape make a strangled noise.

 

Ah, gigs up then on that one.

 

A horrible, guilt-ridden look casts over Dumbledore’s face. To be honest, I don’t really like the look of that either. It doesn’t bring me great, vindictive pleasure to see his pained and stricken face; I look upon it with indifference. Let him feel what he likes.

 

“If you think it best,” he intones, gravely.

 

I give him an annoyed glance. Who the hell does he think he is, telling me that? But he leaves the room all the same after that, casting me one last worried look before he ushers both himself and a shocked Snape out of the room.

 

With both of them gone the room descends into a horrible, horrible, unending silence— one that I don’t know how to break.

 

I don’t know what to say; I _never_ know what to say.

 

I swallow thickly. This is my last chance, though. Hell, I might have already missed it. But it’s an opportunity nonetheless—one I feel like I’m going to fuck up the same way I’ve been fucking them all up for the past few months.

 

“Tom,” I say, and something flashes briefly over his face; evidence that he’s not as indifferent as he’d want me to believe. I put the contract down on the low coffee table, by Dumbledore's half-finished cup of tea.

 

“Why are you doing this?” I ask as I walk directly in front of him and try to remain calm and unaffected. I don't quite succeed; my voice is still brittle and hurt.

 

“What am I doing wrong?” I whisper forlorn.

 

And then, sucking in a breath, “Do you—do you not want me anymore?” I ask, unsteady, so quiet it hardly carries over the unending silence of the room.

 

Those bright red eyes survey me, giving nothing away. “I always want you,” he replies, just as quiet.

 

“You _have_ me,” I insist, voice cracking. “All of me, every inch of me—I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

 

A sudden thought occurs to me, my eyes widening as horror grips my heart. “Is it…” I suck in a breath, stumbling over my words. “Is it a baby you want?”

 

I genuinely have no idea why the fuck he’d ever want one of those, but he’s fixated long enough on it that I can only assume it’s something he wants badly.

 

I feel my stomach plummet to the floor, but steel my heart regardless. I can… I can make myself want that, right? I was laughing hysterically at how impossible that would be a few months ago; _hahaha I'll never want a baby you're shit out of luck you stupid fool_. But now I’m horrified at my own blatant and easy dismissal. Can I make myself genuinely want something like that? I honestly don't know. 

 

“I’ll give it to you,” I find myself saying, faintly—frantically. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

 

“No,” he says, and I don’t know whether what I’m feeling is relief or disappointment.

 

“Then please,” I close my eyes, shaking, feeling tears of frustration and fear springing up again, and trying very hard not to let them fall. Apparently crying won’t be doing me any good anymore. “Please, tell me what it is. _Please_. What do you want from me?”

 

He stands, and studies me very carefully—every single inch of me, all the expanse of skin that he owns completely and irrevocably.

 

“I want _you_ , Harry.” He repeats, as if this isn’t the exact same thing he’s said every time—as if it’s something he hasn’t already accomplished.

 

My eyes fly up to him, searching his gaze, confused and bewildered. “But you… you have me,” I remind him, brokenly. “A—All of me… body and soul.”

 

I don’t know what else to say.

 

I feel as if I see his lips quirk into a wan smile, but I could very well have imagined it. “You’re missing something.”

 

I blink. “What?”

 

“You’re missing a part.” He repeats, quiet.

 

I flash back to what I just said, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. Missing what? Missing one part of what? What did I say? Body… soul…

 

I suck in a breath.

 

Mind. That’s the saying, isn’t it? Mind, body, and soul?

 

“Oh,” I say, softly.

 

I still… I still don’t understand.

 

“But you have that too,” I whisper, confused. “I… I said I’d do whatever you wanted. I’ll do anything you want.”

 

“Yes, Harry.” He sighs. “But what do _you_ want?”

 

I scrutinize his face, both dismay and despair prevalent on my own. What do I want? Aside from his tragic and dramatic death by nuclear explosion? Nothing. Well, if I'm being honest I’m kind of really hungry right now and could go for a sandwich, but other than that nothing. But that’s not necessarily all it is I'm feeling, is it?  A part of me is all set to dance upon his grave, sandwich in hand, and the other part unwillingly feels a horrible twist at the very thought of his death. Of a life without him. Which is about to become a very real reality if I don’t say something quickly.

 

But what’s compelling me to stop him? A heroic complex and an unending need to sacrifice myself for the good of the world? What, do I just like playing the martyr that much? Maybe that’s not it either, though.

 

I clearly don’t answer in time, because he must find something in my silence that makes him turn around, reaching for the piece of parchment on Dumbledore’s desk. It's the old contract, I realize. The one that sealed my fate. It floats into his hand. He holds the contract aloft and I can see him pulling out his wand, to burn it, no doubt. To destroy it - thereby voiding it completely, forcing me to sign the new one if I want to keep all the muggles and muggleborns safe from him. 

 

Something seizes in me, and before I know it I’m grabbing the thing out of his hands.

 

He looks down at me in surprise, clearly not expecting such a vehement response. In his defense, neither was I. I seem to be surprising the both of us quite often these days. His look turns downright shocked when I take it and throw it as hard as I can across the room, where it’s lost in all the junk and trinkets of the office. I watch it soar through the air with a surprising amount of triumph. It disappears behind what I think is a statue of a lion, vanishing from sight. 

 

After that I turn around and crash his lips onto mine. His surprise keeps him immobile for a moment, but then he’s grasping my head in his hands and relentlessly overtaking the kiss, utterly overwhelming me in every way. And I let him. He backs me into something hard, but we don’t stop.

 

I pull away then, and refuse to look at his face—I don’t think I could stomach what I would see there—grabbing him rather violently and hiding my face into his neck.

 

“I hate you,” I whisper fiercely, angrily, wrapping my arms around his neck. “There’s no one I hate more than you—you’re cruel and horrible and possibly the worst person on earth. All you’ve ever done is make my life miserable; either by hurting me or humiliating me or doing whatever other sick shit you like to do.”

 

He is immobile beneath me; as still as stone, and about as cold and unfeeling as one, too. “Harry,” he murmurs, but it’s impossible to read anything in his tone.

 

I lean my head against his shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut. “But I’m yours,” I choke out, feeling traitorous tears escaping without my consent. “I’m yours and you can’t just—you can’t just _throw me away_ —

 

“ _Harry_ ,” he says again, and something like shock colors his voice into something I can recognize.

 

“You can’t _leave me_ ,” I whisper, voice cracking as tears begin to fall freely and uncontrollably, much to my own dismay. The tears probably aren’t going to help me right now.

 

His arms wrap around me, holding me impossibly tight. “You’re mine, Harry,” he replies, low and dangerous. “Do you think I _want_ to give you up?”

 

“I…”

 

I’ve no idea, actually.

 

“No, of course not, you foolish child. _You are mine_ , Harry Potter. And mine alone.” The hand around my head clutches into my hair, almost painfully. “But it is very apparent that you would prefer death over me.”

 

I swallow with difficulty. I’ve definitely thought that, kind of all the time, and I might have shouted it at him before, back when I actually thought talking back and fighting him would do me any good.

 

“That’s not…” _True,_ I want to say. But even that might be a lie.

 

“You’re absconded from the contract,” he goes on to say. “Your precious muggleborns are still safe from me. What more can you want?”

 

I’m at a loss for words, mainly because he’s right. What else could I possibly want? I’m free from the contract—but it’s still in effect. This stupid horcrux ring is effectively saving my life from an eternity of hell. I should be throwing it in his face and running for the fucking hills.

 

And then, he continues, sounding genuinely confused, “What _do_ you want?”

 

I just admitted that I was his; but is that something I would have chosen for myself? He owns me, obviously, that’s rather blatantly apparent. But he has had his mark upon me since I was a baby—I’ve never known anything else. Our souls have always been entwined. Had I the choice, would I have wanted to be his? I don’t know.

 

“I don’t know,” I mumble into his shirt, eventually, echoing my thoughts.

 

I’m ruining everything.

 

First of all, my only chance at freedom. Second, Dumbledore’s—admittedly—very cunning plan to switch me for the ring and dupe the dark lord. We’ll both merrily sign the re-negotiated contract for his other horcrux, binding him to once again give up his plans for muggleborn and muggle annihilation, but what’s going to happen once he realizes that the ring is already destroyed? That it’s simply just a ring, without a piece of soul? He’s going to lose his shit, is what’s going to happen. And maybe I’ll survive the wrath but I very much so doubt the rest of the world will be so lucky.

 

But I can’t lie to myself; it’s more than just my hero complex getting the better of me.

 

It’s always been more.

 

“But I know it’s not that.” I refuse to look up. “I don’t… I don’t want you to give me away.”

 

He wrenches my head up at that, tilting my face forcibly to look at him. My eyes open, but then close again when he comes crashing down on me, with an overwhelming fervor that literally sweeps me off my feet. He grabs both my legs and lifts me up, moving somewhere, I don’t know, I don’t pay it any attention at all, wrapping my arms around him and kissing him back just as fiercely.

 

I’m dropped unceremoniously onto something. Very vaguely do I register it as a desk, all of my thoughts fixated on the man in front of me, his glowing eyes so close to my own.

 

“That would make two of us, then.” He breathes into my mouth, slow and soft.

 

And then he’s kissing me again, and I forget how to think, again. My shirt comes off, somehow, defying the laws of physics because I definitely don’t remember breaking apart even once for it to slide over my head. The magical disappearing act happens to my pants as well. To everything we're both wearing, actually. Huh, look at that.

 

He lowers me down, until I’m lying flat on my back and he’s covering every inch of me.

 

Everything is hot and heady; the filthy scrape of teeth and tongue, his wandering hands burning into me wherever they touch. One hand comes to pull my leg around him, and something scorching and feverish sparks inside me. I can’t remember the last time I was so irrevocably turned on—it’s consuming; I feel lost in it. 

 

But in the middle of all this—he stops.

 

I open my eyes in surprise. No way. He isn’t—

 

Except he totally is.

 

He detaches himself from my grip, standing upright with an ungodly amount of space between us; just simply looking. Just looking. I’m splayed out beneath him, panting, pliant and naked and easy, and that’s normally more than enough to incense his desire into something uncontrollable.

 

I blink up at him, my own lust clearing the longer he stands above me, not touching me.

 

I raise up slowly on my arms, confused.

 

“What—“ I gaze up at him confusion. “Tom—what’s wrong?”

 

 _What am I not doing right_ , is what I really want to ask.

 

He doesn’t answer me.

 

“You don’t need to do this, Harry.” He replies instead—and I don’t know what to say.

 

He’s never given me an option _not_ to. A choice.

 

And didn’t I say that, if I had the opportunity to choose for myself, I would shove him away and make for the other side of the world in a heartbeat? That my answer would be a resounding ‘hell fucking no’ every single time?

 

So why am I sitting here, unable to make the words come out of my mouth?

 

“I know,” I find myself saying, involuntarily, completely going against my own mind. “But I—“ The words lodge themselves in my throat, refusing to work their way up. I close my eyes, and force them out.

 

“I want to,” I finish, shaky, barely above a whisper.

 

He is still and silent, and I can’t force myself to look up—to open my eyes and face reality at all.

 

But reality isn’t going to wait forever, and soon enough I’m dragging my eyes upwards, looking upon him with an emotion even I don’t quite know how to categorize. Fear, pain, desire, sorrow—I can’t even imagine how all of them manage to find their way into my expression.

 

“I want to,” I repeat, swallowing, holding his gaze. “Isn’t that enough?”

 

His unreadable expression breaks at that, all his restraint ruined in that moment as I’m suddenly flung back down onto my back, blinking dazedly up at the ceiling. He turns my lips to his, insatiably, as if he has no patience left. It all moves so fast; there’s the tingling sensation of a lube charm; deft, nimble fingers working into me in all the right ways; his hot mouth dragging down from my lips to burn searing marks into the hollow of my throat. It makes something hot and feverish pool in my stomach, a needy ache I don’t know what to do with—but it’s all also happening so fast, so overwhelmingly, and then his fingers are withdrawing and I can’t stop myself—

 

I freeze up, ice cold fear burning through all the warm, desirous arousal in the space of a second.

 

He notices, of course, stilling against me, his fingers just barely lingering inside me. I catch his expression, but can’t decipher it; I lean up to kiss it away regardless.

 

“It’s okay,” I whisper, and then, feeling like it’s necessary to repeat it again; “ _I want to.”_

 

A faltering look crosses my face. “But just… really slowly.”

 

He kisses me again; soft, tender. I’m suddenly reminded that for the majority of the time I’ve known him we never kissed at all—and now it seems to happen every other second, as if we’re both compelled by some unknown force, unwilling (or unable) to stop.

 

He lowers me again until I’m lying flat, feeling far more open and exposed than I ever have before. But it doesn’t feel… invasive. Intimate, maybe, but not unwelcomed. I feel oddly vulnerable in a way I never,  _never_ do, and I don't know why. No, I do know why. The labyrinth of smoke and mirrors in my mind shift and lock together to make a small, narrow corridor that leads directly to the end of the maze; a tiny glass window that very slightly reveals the part of me that I keep meticulously hidden behind all my defenses. I wonder if he even realizes. 

 

I squeeze my eyes shut at the feeling of him prodding against me, whimpering when he breeches me, sheathing himself fully inside me in one long, slow slide. I try to relax for it—but it’s been a while. That’s irrelevant, actually, I don’t think I’ll ever be quite prepared enough for this, ever. But I’m unused to the feeling of being stretched so widely after so long without it.

 

I wince when he moves slightly, feeling like he’s about to break me in two.

 

“Harry,” he says, and when I open my eyes I see him staring down at me with something that could even be considered concern.

 

“I’m okay,” I shake my head, though my hand is clasped around his arm in what is possibly a death grip. “It’s just…” I grimace, and feel my face flushing deeply. And then, so quiet it’s almost inaudible above the sound of my breathing, “You’re not exactly… _small.”_

 

His eyes darken at that, and a smooth, dark chuckle escapes him. I’m utterly amazed at the sound. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh—or seen him in a genuinely good mood, that wasn’t induced by satisfaction from the pain of others.

 

“Take your time, then,” he murmurs, bending down to brush his lips against mine.

 

I nod shakily, closing my eyes and trying to just… get used to the feeling of being so full. I can feel myself fluttering against him, straining and clenching reflexively and ineffectually, filled to the brim and feeling like it’s all just too much. I’ve no idea how he’s managing to stay so still as I adjust to him; he loves the idea of me being helplessly impaled on his cock—the sight of it, even more so. That he’s exhibiting any sense of patience at all is… almost endearing.

 

I don’t know how long we stay like that; me, trying to force myself to relax and remember how to breath, squirming around him in what is probably the most unintentionally torturous way possible, feeling so vulnerable and exposed, both legs thrown over his shoulders; his mouth hot and wet against my neck, burning marks there. It all feels so intimate in a way it never has before, even though we’ve used this position a thousand times, even though this is far from the most embarrassing thing he’s ever done to me. It feels like so much more.

 

He’s licking and biting at my ear when I finally wriggle around and don’t feel like he’s about to tear me apart. I’m not sure if he’s really just that big, or I’m really just that small. Now that I’m thinking on it, it’s likely a combination of both. Because years of malnutrition have always made me small and fragile in comparison to the other boys my age—and I wasn’t joking about his size. He’s really not small. He’s so far from it, actually, that I sometimes wish he _was_ a little bit smaller. This wouldn’t be such a logistical issue every single time if he was.

 

I clench around him, somewhat ineffectually because it’s kind of hard to clamp down when there’s not much room to do much of anything, but it is far worth it to hear his stifled groan against the shell of my ear as I roll my hips against him, taking him in even more.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” my eyes flutter open in surprise; he’s impossibly deep inside me, but it actually feels… really good.

 

He pushes in further at that, almost involuntarily, and I strain against him, all the breath leaving me all at once.

 

My eyes squeeze shut again when he surges into me again, slow like liquid pleasure. “ _Tom_ ,” I arch my back into his next thrust, gasping. “Tom, oh please, oh—“

 

“Tell me what you want, Harry,” he purrs darkly, dangerously, rolling his hips against me in perfect, shallow little thrusts.

 

I get the feeling I’m going to be hearing that far too much for my liking. As it is, I scrunch my brows in a futile attempt to concentrate on anything but the needy ache inside me. “I don’t know,” I pant, fervid and delirious, “But just— _fuck_ —just do that again…”

 

An unbridled ache swells inside me with every slight, careful tilt of his hips. It’s such a diminutive movement; snatched inches, the subtle shift of him inside me, dragging against a bundle of nerves that takes all the breath out of me on every stroke. It feels fucking amazing. I can suddenly see why everyone wants to have sex all the goddamn time.

 

He isn’t even touching me and I already feel like I’m about to fall apart. And he’s staring down at me, catching each and every flicker of expression that crosses over my unguarded face with a hungry, eager look. He presses into me again, so smooth and gently it feels like a caress—and then I see it. That familiar look in his eyes, searing and devouring me with an uncontrollable thirst.

 

A crimzon gaze dark with a blistering, undeniable _satisfaction._

 

It’s more than that, though. There is a pleased triumph which flickers in those fiery eyes, but also a… certain affection.

 

And when he’s this close, this _deep_ in me, it’s impossible for him to hide anything, not even the naked tenderness that is buried so far in his eyes I don’t even know if he realizes it himself. I'm clearly not the only one who has allowed a small window of my true thoughts to shine through. Defying all logic, and everything I thought I knew about him, I am… pleasing him, once again. He is once more satisfied and content. And then something seems to click into place. The last couple months—the whole year, even—start to make sense.

 

“Tom,” I breathe, and then, against all reason and every inch of my self-preservation, I find something soft cottoning in my throat, stealing my breath away, manifesting outwards as a small, almost insignificant tilt of my lips.

 

Small, but a smile all the same.

 

An exulted, intense look overcomes him—an expression of total enrapture.

 

I don’t get it. It’s as if he’s never seen me—

 

 

“ _Tom,”_ I whisper again, breath hitching, pushing up to press my lips lightly against the side of his mouth. I hadn’t actually meant to do that—my aim is a little off, sue me, this position is not fun for balance—but something about the unintentional sweetness of it completely unravels him, and he makes a small noise against my mouth.

 

Against my own volition, my smile grows when I pull away. It is soft and endearing; he fixates upon it as if he’s disregarding everything else in the world.  There is a greedy, ravenous look of utter enchantment when he draws a hand to my lips, tracing the curve of them. And then it’s gone, and he’s abruptly leaning down to catch my mouth, as if to keep the smile as his own.

 

My eyes widen in surprise, and a couple things happen all at once.

 

The momentum pulls whatever small modicum of equilibrium I had; my legs fall from his shoulders and I clasp them tightly against his waist to keep my balance; we both end up falling onto the table in the most uncoordinated way possible, but I don’t even care because the movement drives him deeper into me, abrupt and sudden, and then I’m shuddering apart at the feel of it, convulsing around him and coming harder than I can ever remember, to the point I actually think I black out for a bit. Over the white noise of my own pleasure I hear his own release as he groans into my neck: feel it, even, pulsating so deep in me, claiming me completely and irrevocably.

 

I blink up sleepily at the ceiling, suddenly besieged by a great unwillingness to move; I want to stay like this forever. Or at least until I fall asleep.

 

But as I’m lying there wrapped in his arms, looking dazedly over his shoulder and trying to catch my breath, the rest of the world comes back to me. There’s a moment of bewilderment and incomprehension.

 

And then I find myself choking on a bubble of laughter.

 

Because above us is an endless wall crammed with hanging portraits of all the headmasters to have ever been at Hogwarts on every available inch of wallpaper—all of them are frozen, which means at some point he must have frozen them all. But all this just serves to remind me of where we are right now. I turn my head, straining to see what we’re on and, yep, this is the headmaster’s desk.

 

“What?” Tom mumbles into my neck, seeming just as unwilling to get up as I am.

 

I keep snickering quietly, unable to control it.

 

He raises his head at that. “ _What_?”

 

I shake my head as he pulls out carefully, before dragging me upright into a sitting position. My legs drop from his waist but I stay in the circle of his arms, pressing my smile into his chest.

 

“Nothing,” I giggle, “It’s just that—“ I press myself further into him, muffling my laughter.

 

“We just had sex on the desk of every headmaster to ever teach at Hogwarts,” I point out to him, whispering conspiratorially.

 

I feel a dark, pleased smirk pressed into my hair. “They’ll never have to know.”

 

He waves a hand, and within seconds we’re both clothed again. Ah—that would explain how they managed to find their way off me in the first place. But the return of the familiar fabric has me remembering just why, exactly, we were desecrating such a priceless historical artifact in the first place.

 

I look down, and whatever sense of warmth I had felt from earlier recedes into a frigid, hollow cold.

 

“The contract,” I start, hesitantly, leaning against him, gaze fixated on the floor. “What are you…” I swallow. “Are you— do you want me to sign it?”

 

There’s a moment where he doesn’t say anything in response.

 

Then he’s lifting my chin, gently, almost, but still insistently. “Do you want to?” He returns, unreadable.

 

I should. But it’s with great resignation that I realize my fate was sealed long before this. “No,” I answer, quiet but honest.

 

It doesn’t feel like a surrender at all.

 

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.

 

I tell Dumbledore that everything is fine and that the fate of the world has once more been saved. Or at least, the fate of the muggleborns. This doesn’t seem to placate him at all, as he watches me with great concern and inquires further on what Voldemort and I discussed.

 

I manfully refrain from revealing to him that we didn’t solve any of our issues with ‘discussion’.

 

Instead I just reiterate the fact that everything is fixed and there’s no point in getting worked up over it. I’m not even annoyed in the slightest with his misplaced concern or his constant barrage of questions—I have extracted my swift and unrepentant vengeance, and it feels fucking fantastic. He’s going to sit at that desk and never know how much we defiled it, but I am going to relish in secret vindication every time I think about it.

 

Anyway, I am far less concerned with Dumbledore, the still-in-effect contract, the destroyed horcrux ring, and pretty much everything else that has to do with that whole debacle.

 

I am turning my full attention to another area of study.

 

“Harry,” I hear a surprised voice startle behind me. “What are you doing here?”

 

I look up owlishly to the visage of a bewildered Hermione, looking as if she just saw a hippogriff walk on its hind legs. I’d be a little more annoyed at that, but let’s face it, she’s right. There’s far better chances of hippogriffs learning how to do the tango than me voluntarily placing myself in the library.

 

“Researching,” I answer, not smooth at all.

 

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Oh, are you?” Her tone is light and airy.

 

I want to bang my head against the table and die. “Yes,” I reply, honestly.

 

But I would very much so prefer it if you never knew what it was that I was looking up.

 

It’s a little hard to hide though, considering I’ve pulled out pretty much every book I could find on sex and carnal desires. Most of it is just a lot of potions and spells, but some if it could qualify as relevant to my current cause. It’s inevitable; she nears, and her brows raise when she catches sight of the book titles stacked haphazardly around me.

 

She gives me a look of barely restrained bemusement. “Huh,” she says, but then she sits down, cracks open her own book, and for all intent purposes seems to forget about me.

 

I blink at her, stunned, before I too return to my reading.

 

I wrinkle my nose at it; it appears to be a rather dark text on blood and sex rituals. Lovely. I knicked it out of the restricted section with a note I finagled (read: guilt tripped) Dumbledore into giving me, in the hopes of finding something more useful down in the bowels of Hogwart’s most guarded books. As I keep reading I feel a very small, tiny drop of gratitude that the dark lord never deigned to try any of these out on me. It doesn't actually go into detail abut what most of them do or how to actually do them, but it does sort of explain the reason behind why anyone would ever want to do them. There are plenty of rituals involving the power of sacrificed virginity on certain days of the year, lots of chains and hot coals and pikes and other various forms of torture are usually involved. It's always great to be reminded that humans really are undeniably the most fucked up species on the planet. Anyway he definitely pulled a lot of other terrible shit, but apparently that didn’t even scratch the surface of the horrifying things people can do to each other.

 

At any rate, it is a horrifying and morbidly fascinating read, but ultimately a useless one. I didn't really need- or want- to know any of that. But I don't know where else to turn. I close the book with great, resigned finality, realizing that my best bet is probably the resource sitting right in front of me.

 

“Hermione,” I intone, gravely.

 

She looks up, slow and laconic in a way that means she was just waiting for me to broach the subject. “Yes?”

 

I sigh. “I need your help.”

 

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In the space of a few days Hermione has unearthed a small little book about sexuality that is mercifully devoid of any samhain rituals. It’s a muggle book, actually, but that doesn’t matter. Magic or no, we’re all the same species; I’m assuming things like this are overreaching themes for our whole race.

 

I’m not sure why I’m so intent on finding out why Voldemort… does the things he does. I’d always assumed he was just a horrible and unfeeling monster; this sort of cruel, one-dimensional character who acted without rhyme or reason. And that he plays his little games to derive satisfaction out of the pain of others; that he feels nothing but either rage or sick enjoyment. It certainly seems like it.

 

At first glance, anyway.

 

The book proves to be a phenomenal resource, which explains a lot about his actions, but definitely doesn’t excuse any of them.

 

I’m not sure what it is though about dominating others—and me, in particular—that he fixates so wholly upon, or even why he does it in the first place. But his obsession with it seems to be the root of everything he’s ever done; everything he’s ever done to _me_.

 

He wanted complete control and ownership over me, which manifested as a deep-seated desire to see me submit to him. That didn’t take long, honestly. By the beginning of fifth year I had already figured out it was far better to just do what he wants. But then it seemed to move from a fixation with my submission to craving my reactions to it. Crying, begging, screaming, repeating whatever he told me to say—they were all just manifestations of his dominance over me. But even that too soon lost it’s ability to satiate his need.

 

But there was nothing else he could do; I had already completely submitted to him. I obeyed his every command without complaint or fanfare. I guess that’s when he started getting frustrated. I definitely remember that; his mercurial and unexplainable moods, his volatile anger that would emerge even when I did everything he told me to. Because it wasn’t enough anymore.

 

Who knows—maybe this is when he got so frustrated he tried to get me pregnant. I don’t actually think it had anything to do with a baby as much as it did the idea of me being knocked up. Another claim of ownership, I guess.

 

Well anyway, that worked about as well as the rest of his attempts, which is to say not at all.

 

I frown, pensively.

 

I wonder what changed all that. His motivations up until this point are fairly easy to unravel, but I can’t find any explanation for the last few months. I understand why he had felt so frustrated and unsatisfied, but what I don't understand is what changed his mind. 

 

I don’t know why I’m thinking on all of this so deeply right at this moment, when I’m curled up in his lap, having breakfast.

 

Which is a first; I don’t normally stick around for breakfast.

 

I don’t normally let him feed me strawberries, either.

 

At first when he pulled me into his lap it seemed rather… sweet. Endearing. Romantic, even. Which is absurd and mildly horrifying, so I dug deeper to find the real reason for it all. Which is why I’m thinking all these really intensive thoughts about sexuality and fetishes so early in the morning.

 

It definitely has less to do with the romance and a lot more to do with the whole domineering, possessive personality.

 

But that isn’t to say there isn’t something strangely… affectionate about all of it.

 

I lean against his chest, feeling slow and sleepy, head pillowed on his shoulder. One arm is wrapped tightly around me, and the other holds a fork with a slice of banana on it, moving up to him instead of me. I don’t know what possesses me to lean up really quickly and steal it from him, but I intercept it before it can make it to his mouth, claiming it for my own. I feel a mischievous smile light on my face when I see his expression. He doesn’t punish me for this grievance; against all reason an amused look crosses his face and he stabs another piece, moving it towards me. I open my mouth to bite it, feeling really strange and—weird. I feel like I’ve lost my mind at some point during this day.

 

This whole day makes no sense, but I find myself playing along with it anyway, categorizing everything he does and attempting to make sense of it. This goes about as well as you could imagine.

 

First of all; no sexual exploits to speak of. Considering these past few months I guess it isn’t all that strange—but in the grand scheme of things it kind of is.

 

For all intents and purposes, I’m sitting here doing my homework. Actually the dark lord is doing my homework, and I’m sitting here petting Nagini.

 

“How do you not know the five basic laws of transmutation?” He snorts, looking genuinely confused. “What are they teaching you in that school?”

 

I shrug somewhat defensively, holding a hand aloft for Nagini to wind around my arm. “We probably went over it at some point,” I reply feebly, still a little hesitant to reply to him at all. The whole ‘conversing’ thing is really hard to come to terms with. “I probably just wasn’t paying attention.”

 

His expression turns unreadable. “Yes,” he turns away. “I suppose you would have much to distract you.”

 

I blink at that, wondering how the mood turned so bleak in a matter of seconds. Nagini leaves my hand in favor of curling up in my lap. What could he—oh. Oh. But I hadn’t meant it to be accusatory at all; I wasn’t blaming him for it or anything. Even though it kind of is his fault.

 

I feel a change in subject is in order, but have no idea what to change it to. I’m not all that socially adept to begin with, but whatever grasp I have on polite conversation is not nearly enough to help me now. It's not like we've ever actually attempted to hold a conversation before. The only thing I know how to do with him is… sex. Though I don’t know how useful that’s going to be right now.

 

I shift uneasily, drowning in silence. “I’m sleepy,” I say, if only to break the quiet.

 

He gives me an odd look, quill pausing. “You can retire whenever you like, Harry. I’m not keeping you here.”

 

I nod, fidgeting still.

 

“Right,” I bite my lip, rubbing Nagini almost absently. “But…”

 

When I fail to finish, he looks up again. I wish he hadn’t, though. Those quiet crimson eyes are doing funny things to something that feels suspiciously like my heart.

 

“Will you come with me?”

 

I think he is honestly surprised.

 

He rises all the same though, pulling me up as well. Nagini slithers off of me as he apparates us both to the bedroom. It’s only the late afternoon but already it looks as if it could be the dead of night, the world dark outside of the windows.

 

I crawl into the bed, suddenly struck with a legitimate sleepiness. I was lying earlier, but now I actually kind of do want to sleep. I feel the bed dip behind me, turning around to see Voldemort watching me intensely. I turn back around, lying on my side but dragging one of his hands with me, pulling him against me. He seems caught off guard by the movement, stilling behind me for a moment; then he is grasping me tighter, until there’s no space left between us.

 

I’m sieged with a sudden awkwardness, but I lose it soon enough, drifting off in the warm circle of his arms.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark themes: non-con/ like SERIOUSLY/dub-con/childhood abuse/underage/sexual abuse/stockholm syndrome/unhealthy relationships.  
> I can’t list them all. But there’s a lot. If any of the following are not something you want/should be reading, please don’t.


	2. this could be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This entire story was supposed to be just straight up all my favorite kinks in one place, but then somehow it ousted me and wrote feelings into itself. Well no, tbh this was never supposed to be a story at all. This chapter I made a valiant effort to add more favorite kinks, and then it ousted me again, this time with angst. I mean, I’m glad no one really minded the random feels, but I’ve always wanted this to be just… plot-less porn. I tried, again. And it didn’t work, again. big sorry.

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I feel very out of sorts for the rest of the week, like half of me wandered away sometime in the night without telling me, and hasn’t returned. I hope that half is in the Caribbean, drinking an inadvisable amount of girly drinks for the both of us. At least a part of me might be enjoying life somewhere.

 

As it is, I am poking fruitlessly at my breakfast, wondering why I’m still not hungry even though I’m not being made to dine with the dark lord. I think I actually ate more when he was technically spoon feeding me than I have in the past couple weeks.

 

Hermione is utterly mutinous when I ace my Transfiguration essay. Combined with the magical and all-knowing potions book I found earlier this year, I actually might pass two classes at this rate. And if Voldemort keeps doing my homework, I might actually pass them all. Now if only I could somehow get him to take my NEWTs as well—I’d be set for life. Mcgonagall was incredibly impressed with my advanced knowledge of the principles of Transfiguration. I give her a very unconvincing smile, and pretend like I’m actually the one who wrote that.

 

She doesn’t press me for any answers, though she does shoot me a knowing smirk every so often, as if to remind me that she knows there are incredibly kinky things that I apparently get up to at all hours of the night. This wouldn’t have been untrue this time last year; as it is, it couldn’t be any farther from reality these days.

 

It comes to me that maybe… there’s a reason for that. Well, I mean, no shit, no one does a total one-eighty without a reason, especially someone like Voldemort. But I am no closer to figuring out what it was that made him change than I am of figuring out why there are no kinky things to speak of.

 

I portkey back almost immediately after class, feeling a mixture of both anxiety and anticipation. I don’t really know what I feel, but it sort of feels like a really bad stomach ulcer. I don’t see him when I open my eyes. I don’t actually know how the portkey works—sometimes it brings me right to his side, other times it drops me off in the bedroom, like now. I guess it all depends on whether he’s in his rooms are not. I can’t make up my mind if I’m relieved that he’s not here or disappointed. I want to kick myself. How can one person be so indecisive, all the time?

 

I stare sightlessly at the bed for some time, lost in thought. Do I just crawl in there and sleep? Or do I wait for him? Should I take my clothes off? Normally I wouldn’t worry about any of this; if he wanted my clothes off he’d take them off; I wouldn’t have to debate whether or not to sleep or stay up because I wouldn’t have had the chance for the decision in the first place. I decide I’m far too tired to figure any of this out, so I transfigure my clothes into something comfortable and roll into the blanket. He can always just wake me up if he wants me.

 

Except, maybe he doesn’t want me.

 

He doesn’t wake me up, at any rate.

 

I find myself stirring in the night regardless, lost in some strange tidal wave of dreams that make no sense. They all drift away when I blink into wakefulness, enclosed in darkness. I don’t know what time it is, but it is not quite early enough to be considered night, but not quite late enough to be considered morning.

 

Voldemort is beside me, staring unerringly at me—and appears to have been watching my sleeping form for some time.

 

I don’t know what to make of it. I never know what to do when he does this, aside from fidget nervously. Why is he looking… so intensely? More importantly: what is he thinking? I used to mistake him for an incredibly evil, horrible man with no other interest than providing great misery. But this does not seem to be entirely true: and he has instead proved himself to be the most difficult, complex and utterly nonsensical person on the planet. There apparently is a reason for what he does, but whatever that reason is makes absolutely no sense to me, and by extension neither does anything he does.

 

But as I watch him back, a strange thought strays past me, one that has flickered past before, but I have never paid much attention to.

 

I reach out before I can think better of it, though I don’t know what I’m reaching for. My hand ends up in his hair, and I am moving closer, at such an infinitely slow pace I think tectonic plates are moving faster than me. But I am giving myself ample time to search for any expression on his face—any at all. Nothing, as usual.

 

But when my lips finally find his, he surges towards me, with a ferocity that completely takes me by surprise. Not because of its existence, but of its intensity. It’s been weeks since we’ve done any of this, or anything even remotely intimate. I can’t remember the last time he kissed me.

 

Now that I’m thinking on it though, that might be the issue. I think this might have been happening all along; it’s not that he doesn’t want me—an astounding amount of empirical evidence proves otherwise—but he’s _waiting_ for me. Waiting for me to initiate it first. Waiting for _me_ to kiss him.

 

I don’t know what to do with that.

 

Because it would stand to reason that if I started something first—completely and absolutely of my own volition—than I would be wanting him back. Do I? Want him back? I’ve no idea. On the subject of empirical evidence, it currently is saying yes. If I didn’t, why would I be here now then? Why wouldn’t I have just let him take his stupid ring and forever be done with him? To be completely honest though… the facts might be saying yes, but I still think I’m saying no.

 

Unsurprisingly, it is a matter of moments before he is overtaking the kiss, rolling me onto my back, pinning me to the bed.

 

And then, he stops. He pulls away, looking back at me. For a moment I am out of breath and very confused; why is he stopping? It occurs to me that maybe he is… waiting. I blink up at him, studying him carefully. There is nothing on his features that would suggest it, but then there has never been anything easily discernible from his expression in the entire time I’ve known him. Another moment of withheld silence passes, only solidifying my theory. He really is waiting for some kind of affirmation.

 

Just because I know this, though, doesn’t mean I am any closer to figuring out _why._

 

He could take what he wanted, regardless of whatever I thought about it. Why isn’t he?

 

I lean up then, brushing my lips against his own, licking shyly against him. The answer is immediate—immediate, and utterly overwhelming. One of his arms rests by my head, the other warm and heavy, sliding underneath my shirt. But he doesn’t move any farther. I wonder if he would if I asked him to—if I asked him to fuck me. Well, asked him and actually meant it. Not just as empty words parroted back to him.

 

More than that—I wonder if he _wouldn’t._

I don’t ask. The consuming kiss mellows in ferocity, dwindling into something soft and slow. And when I start to get really sleepy and begin to drift off, his mouth leaves my own to burn marks into the side of my neck; insistent, but not demanding. And when I well and truly am about to fall asleep, he pulls me towards him until I am snugly fitted against him, a possessive arm wrapped around me. In this position his arousal is fairly obvious; also obvious is his intent to do absolutely nothing at all about it. This is significant, somehow, but I will return to the matter when I actually have the brain power to think clearly on it. As it is, I am too tired to care.

 

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.

 

Someone is shaking me awake.

 

It doesn’t take much, honestly. Whatever sleep had taken hold of me was restless and uneasy, and one soft touch was enough to jolt me back into awareness. I blink up at the dark ceiling, stuck in that place that’s just out of reach for dreams but not quite reality again. My eyes are wet and something hot slides down my cheek. Tears.

 

I blink some more.

 

I’ve been crying?

 

I wipe the back of my hand over my eyes and confirm this. Great. Who even knows why—I genuinely cannot remember whatever it was I was dreaming about, aside from the occasional moment drifting over me. Uncle Vernon, of course. For reasons that still boggle me to this day, I seem to have far more subconscious psychological issues with him than I do Voldemort.

 

Speaking of Voldemort, he is hovering above me with a very strange expression. I can’t tell what it is. It doesn’t look like irritation—which is his blanket response to my stupid nightmares. It’s not indifference, though.

 

“Sorry,” I murmur, closing my eyes again. “Was I shouting again?” I ask with great resignation. Maybe I should get someone to gag me before I sleep. Actually, I should probably cast a silencing charm over myself before I sleep. I say this, but then I always forget to do it when I’m actually falling asleep.

 

“No,” he answers, after a moment.

 

I sniffle, wiping at my nose, terribly annoyed with myself. Crying is gross. “Oh,” I say after a moment. And then, shifting to face him fully, “Did I wake you?”

 

“No,” he answers again. “Go back to sleep, Harry.”

 

He moves away then, straightening up from where he was leaning over me, leaving the bed. For reasons I don’t really want to own up to right now, I reach for him before he stands, throwing my hand over his own, lying on the sheets. He is frozen in place, startled. This does not deter me as I grab it tightly, sitting up and pressing against him, hiding my face in his shoulder.

 

“You don’t have to go,” I mumble into the fabric of his shirt.

 

He doesn’t leave, but he seems reluctant to stay. A heavy pause drapes over us; I turn further into him.

 

He sighs then, at great length. “What were you dreaming of, Harry?”

 

I don’t reply.

 

I’ve never told anyone about what I dream about, and I don’t feel like changing that. Anyway, Voldemort is the last person I would ever want to open up to about that. I know I said I would one day relish the opportunity to relay that he had failed. He didn’t break me; he didn’t get the chance to—someone had already beaten him to it. But I know I’d never actually do it. I can’t even work up the—bravery? Courage? Stupidity?—to tell Hermione or Ron, and they know me the most, they’re my closest friends.

 

It’s a long time until I find the words; “I don’t remember.” But it is a heinous lie. And obvious; I am a very bad liar.

 

I close my eyes, feeling vacuous and empty in the sudden stillness. Perhaps what I hate most about these dreams is how disoriented I am after them. It’s not like I really remember them all that well anyway, but the aftermath is annoying. Annoying, and long. It’ll be a while before I stop feeling so out of sorts.

 

Something moves against my fingers.

 

I look down; he is gently prying my grip apart with his other hand. And once he has accomplished this he stands, turned in the other direction.

 

“I think perhaps it would be better if I left you to your rest.”

 

And then he is out the door.

 

I’m stuck staring at the empty doorway with a completely blank expression, uncomprehending. What just happened? For a moment this thought lingers in my head, unanswered, simply floating about. I blink a few more times, before my brain reminds me of its existence and presents to me the obvious answer. It takes a bit, but then I am struggling out of the mess of blankets, darting towards the door. He is not in his chambers. I hesitate briefly at the exit of them, before a strange determination takes its place and I’m wrenching it open and darting out into the open.

 

I’ve never actually been here before. I don’t even know where we are. A house, obviously, though mansion may be a more accurate terminology for it. It is fucking gigantic—not to mention a total rat maze. They should post ‘you are here’ signs around this place, honestly. Or at the very least provide complimentary maps.

 

I would have preferred to never have stepped foot in this part of the manor and never have need of either of those, but unfortunately my conscious is getting the better of me. Or at least, I hope it’s my conscious. Because if it’s not than it would be my heart that is dragging me out here, and that is far worse.

 

I skid around a corner, out of breath, eyes widening.

 

My first thought is that I am very, very fortunate that I had the foresight to at least put something on before I sprinted out into the manor’s hallways. I’ve no idea how utterly mortifying and terrible it would have been otherwise. Any run in with Snape is disastrous, I cannot imagine one without clothes.

 

Not that I’m exactly… appropriately dressed. I had enough foresight to grab something off the floor, yes, but not enough for anything else. Which is why I’m wearing (read: swimming in) a shirt that is clearly not my own. It is far too big; the collar is wide open and one side is slipping off my shoulder, half the buttons aren’t done up, and the ones that are have been haphazardly buttoned wrong. I’m not sure what I must look like, but I would prefer to live my life without ever knowing.

 

“Professor…” I greet, very slowly.

 

I’m reminded that Professor Snape was, indeed, there for my embarrassing display in Dumbledore’s office. Or at least he was for a part of it. But it was long enough to… put some pieces together, so he shouldn’t look so surprised to see me.

 

It could have been worse, I console myself. This is true; I can name like _five_ other people that would have been worse, just off the top of my head.

 

I see a strange, conflicted expression cross his face. He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. A lemon that made him really sad. I’m not sure exactly what it is. He gives me a once over, which is deeply disturbing. I hope its just incredulity on my attire—the alternative is too heinous to contemplate.

 

Also, I really hope it’s not pity. That’s nice of him and all, but completely unwarranted and a bit annoying.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Potter,” he drawls at length, but even that is missing its usual snark. Where is the sneer of disgust, the dripping hatred, the acerbic insults? Snape’s hatred of me is so predictable it’s almost rather reassuring—not seeing it genuinely concerns me. I would ponder this further, but right now I do not have the time to even spare it a thought.

 

“And to you, Professor.” I return in a rush. “Um... if you’ll excuse me…”

 

“I, um, am kind of in a hurry—“ I conclude, awkward as ever. “So…”

 

 _Smooth_ , _Harry,_ I think to myself. _Really fucking smooth._

 

And then I am sliding around him, and turning the corner as fast as I can. Hopefully he doesn’t follow me.

 

Not that I even know where I’m going. I’m… following my nose, so to speak. It seems silly to think that I’m trying to find Voldemort in this sprawling maze through instinct alone, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to work. That horcrux connection is working in my favor right now.

 

I finally find him in a drawing room, at least two floors down. I tried to count the stairs, but there were a lot of them and they weren’t always a staircase. I have absolutely no idea where I am, so it is with great relief that I push the door open and see him looking down at the table. It is long, and full of what I think are maps. I’m not exactly paying attention to the documents, the décor, or anything else for that matter. Ignoring everything, except for him. This seems to be a running theme in my life.

 

“Tom,” I say, for lack of anything else.

 

He turns around, and his indifference breaks into complete, genuine surprise. “Harry,” he returns, blinking.

 

I cross the room, my bare feet against the marble the only sound in the otherwise vacuous space. I throw my arms around him. There is something very satisfying about it—something I normally choose to ignore. I don’t really know what it is. Probably that stupid horcrux stuff, who knows. Maybe if I squeezed Nagini really hard I’d feel the same way.

 

For a time or two I don’t say anything, resting my head against him and pretending that the world doesn’t actually exist, that it is all just the convoluted result of my over imaginative mind. But even I couldn’t have come up with something as fucked up as this, so that works as well as you can imagine it did.

 

“It’s not what you think,” I insist at length, as if picking up a thread of conversation.

 

One hand seems to involuntarily rise to my head, getting lost in my hair. “I don’t need an explanation, Harry.”

 

Liar. I tighten my grip. I have this incessant need to tell him the truth, which I acknowledge is stupid and maybe even hazardous to my health but ignore anyway. I shouldn’t be feeling bad at all; I have nothing to be sorry for. I shouldn’t even care what he feels—if he’s actually, you know, capable of feeling things at all.

 

I want to tell him that it’s not him; that, for some inexplicable reason, he is not the one who haunts my dreams in the night. That might be the painfully obvious conclusion to come to, but it’s wrong.

 

I don’t tell him this. “Then can I have one instead?” I counter. I don’t wait for him to respond. “Why did you leave?”

 

There is a long silence after that. I expected it, though. I don’t actually think he would answer that.

 

I reach up very carefully and tilt his face towards me. Unfortunately, it is as stoic as usual.

 

“ _Tom,”_ I whisper to him. He grips me tighter, almost reflexively, and something dark flickers in his gaze.

 

I lean in closer, until I can nose against his ear. “I want you to come back.” I pull away, searching him. “…Will you?” For the first time in what seems like eternity, it appears I have said the right thing.

 

His arms circle around me, until I am completely trapped in them. And then the room disappears.

 

.

 

.

 

It’s a lot easier to close my eyes and lean into him when it’s so dark I can’t see anything. It’s almost as if I could pretend this was all some secret, diminutive universe of just the two of us, and when light peels away all the shadow it will wash away this eternity too. As if I could tell him whatever I wanted in this moment, and never have to live to deal with the consequences.

 

He is always so very warm, and surprisingly comfortable as I burrow in next to him. I’m reminded that this is also something of a new development, even if it doesn’t seem like it. I remember a time when I would have thought he’d lost his mind if he tried to hold me like this, or that he’d been replaced by a pod person or something. I’m not sure if the thought is making me maudlin or courageous; probably a bit of both.

 

“I never remember my dreams,” I confess, soft, as if it is only meant to exist in the space between us.

 

He doesn’t reply, but at the very least I know he’s listening. One of his hands rests against my hip, thumb rubbing small circles against my skin. I don’t think he means for it to be reassuring, but it is all the same.

 

“But I…” Something funny lodges in my throat. I’m taken aback by its existence. Why is this so hard? I swallow with no small amount of difficulty, attempting to forcefully drag the words out. “It doesn’t matter, really. They’re all the same thing anyway.”

 

It’s strange, I think absently, how much of a struggle this is. I acknowledge with indifference that even I am surprised with how difficult this is—I knew it was something I’d prefer to never talk about or think about for the rest of my life, but I’m still unprepared to feel this unmitigated terror. It confuses me, really.

 

It feels like an endless silence has draped onto us. I realize it’s been a stupidly long amount of time since I’ve said anything, but am still unable to do anything about it.

 

It’s with great effort that I finally do. I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning against him. “My Uncle…” I manage to say—but it is impossible to get anything else out. As it is I already feel horrible, full of some really shitty emotion that I can’t explain.

 

Adding to the misery of the moment is another unending, horrifying silence. It is so loud I think I’m drowning in it.

 

I decide that it is impossible and utterly fruitless to attempt to continue that sentence, so I give up on it. Instead, I find his hand in the dark, holding it tightly as I draw closer, until there’s no space left. “It’s not you.” I tell him, quietly. “It’s never been you.”

 

“So…” I feel like all the breath has left me, “You, um… you don’t have to leave _.”_

 

He doesn’t leave.

 

I feel—well, incredibly lame, awkward, and embarrassed… and okay, mortified beyond belief and completely unable to understand myself. Am I really turning to Lord Voldemort for comfort? In what universe would that actually be a logical thing to do? Because it’s not this one. This does nothing to stop it from happening either way, though in defense of the universe’s laws of physics and all that, he’s not actually doing much aside from laying next to me. I don’t even know if that counts as consoling someone. Still, it’s far more than what I would have expected.

 

That, and he doesn’t appear to be in the mood to wrangle the true explanation out of me. A very strange gesture, coming from him, because he usually relishes the idea of my psychological trauma. Or does he? Because he doesn’t seem all that enthused about it right now. Maybe its only psychological trauma induced by him; another weird obsession thing. Who knows. I table that thought for later, deciding that this is a whole other debacle that I don’t’ want to get into.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

The problem with the whole ‘tabling it for later’ thing is that I am an incredible and inspirational procrastinator. If I don’t want to think about something, or do something, I’ve made working around it and ignoring the issue into a minor art form. 

 

With the advent of the sudden existence of my free time, I actually can play Quidditch again. I don’t even have to do anything but remark that I can stay for the afternoons in the Gryffindor common room for about two dozen people to beg me to come back to the team. Most of them don’t even play Quidditch; they just want to stop seeing Gryffindor lose.

 

I agree with this sentiment. The idea of letting Slytherin with the Quidditch Cup is deeply disturbing.

 

But Quidditch inadvertently brings me back to a subject I’ve been avoiding for the past couple weeks.

 

Namely: Voldemort. Voldemort, and everything about him that I’ve been trying not to think about.

 

And more to the point,:Voldemort and me. Uh, Voldemort, me, and sex, actually. I don’t even know what to consider us anymore; what we are to each other has changed so many fucking times in my life it actually makes my brain hurt. It’s changed—but I don’t think any of those feelings ever left. I still hate him. I still fear him, in a way. I think I might actually despise him to my very core; unfortunately, having a hatred that deep for him is the problem. At this point, it doesn’t matter whether it’s love or hatred; it’s irrelevant. It is a very strong and deep-seated emotion that will never leave me regardless.

 

On the subject of our every changing relationship, we’re on this new kick where we don’t have sex. As in, at all. As in—nothing since we defiled a precious historic artifact.

 

It’s… strange.

 

To go from the most horrible sex possible to mildly okay sex to really good consensual sex and then to absolutely nothing is… well, I would have said impossible. It’s like he decided to join the monastery or something.

 

But I have a sinking suspicion that the reason for his new vow of celibacy has less to do with heading to the mountains to live with the monks in solitude, and more to do with the fact that I haven’t asked for it.

 

And to be completely honest, I don’t know if I ever will.

 

It’s late when practice ends—it’s my first one back, so everyone was rather overly enthusiastic about it—practically dark out and far past the hour I should have been returning. I’m a little worried, actually. Will he be mad? He didn’t exactly give me a curfew or something, but he still makes me dine with him and for once I’m so hungry I think I might devour the whole table, and it’s a bit past dinner time.

 

I wave off my friends, urging them to go to the dining hall without me. No one knows exactly how I have my ‘training to defeat the dark lord’, and I’d prefer to keep them guessing about what that ambiguous subheader means. I don’t intend to enlighten them.

 

I portkey into a sitting room I’ve never been to, blinking into my new surroundings. There’s a warm, roaring fireplace, handsome dark wood furniture—a lot of M’s, actually. On everything. A thought occurs to me: are we in Malfoy Manor? Horror strikes me to the quick. Good god, have I been staying at Malfoy’s house this whole time? The horror quickly becomes vindictive pleasure when I realize this means I’ve been defiling his house this whole time.

 

Whatever I’m thinking of about Malfoy leaves me all at once when I catch sight of the dark lord, all coherent thought washing away like water in my hands.

 

“Hi,” I say, lamely, for lack of anything with more significance.

 

I feel overwhelmed when the bright, cinerous eyes turn towards me. He has the prophet in one hand, a tumbler in the other; the fire casts warm patters over him, the room, the air between us. Nagini is by the hearth, curled up and basking in the warmth. It’s a strange sight to see—it is all so very… domestic. It’s a side of him I’ve never really seen, and somehow being included in makes something strange constrict in my chest.

 

“You’re late,” he observes, not appearing angry but then, just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

 

“Sorry,” I reply, sheepishly. “I—uh, had Quidditch practice.”

 

He raises a brow. “Yes, I had deduced that much on my own.” He agrees, darkly.

 

I blink rapidly, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks. The look he’s giving me… well, it’s not exactly difficult to understand.

 

I look down at myself. I’m a mess, actually, and in desperate need of a shower. I’m also wet from the misty air of the Quidditch pitch—and, you know, splattered with mud. I don’t even want to know what my hair looks like—or what’s in my hair, for that matter. I’ve found a lot of crazy things in there after a Quidditch game.

 

None of this deters Voldemort, who looks like he wants to bend me over the couch and fuck my brains out.  

 

For a brief moment, I find it a bit amusing. Who would have thought the dark lord had a thing for Quidditch breeches? Well, he’s certainly not alone in that; I’m pretty sure it’s like everyone’s secret fantasy. It’s flattering, I guess. And unnerving. But definitely not surprising. I don’t know what it is about me in particular that he derives so much fascination out of, but whatever it is he’s never made much of a secret about it. He wants me: preferably naked, in his bed, maybe tied up.

 

Right. Definitely not a secret.

 

And anyway, that’s the whole crux of the matter right now—he might want it, but I don’t think _I_ do.

 

“Um,” I look away, flustered. “Right so it just ended…”

 

He blinks at me, slowly, looking like he’s not hearing a word I’m saying, and is instead mentally undressing me.

 

“And I’m really hungry.” I confess, feeling like I could have said that a bit more tactfully, but I’m far too hungry to care. Quidditch takes a lot out of you, you know. It might actually be enough to get me to eat a decent amount of food, for the first time in months.

 

He makes a noncommittal noise than, appearing to pull himself from whatever fantasy he was having, gesturing to the comfy looking armchair across from him. I move towards it somewhat guiltily, because this really nice looking chair is about to be wet and muddy and totally unsalvageable. The moment I sit down food pops up on the end table to my right. I jolt in surprise, peering down at it curiously. House elves. Honestly. Sorry Hermione, but they’re like the best creatures to ever grace the earth, and I don’t plan on having to give them up any time soon.

 

When I look up again, I have to tear my gaze back down, blushing furiously. I’m not entirely sure what he’s thinking right now, but I’m pretty sure it is a fantasy that involves me, Quidditch breeches and probably not anything else. Again, I am weirdly flattered, and also mildly uncomfortable.

 

I wish I could make up my mind right now. Something hot and heavy curls in my stomach at the idea of him thinking of me like that—but at the same time, all the air in my lungs seems to freeze in terror, and a trepidation that I can’t control seizes my heart. I don’t really know how to explain it, or how to explain myself, either. Is this a rational reaction? On the one hand, it’s probably like an ingrained pavlovian response at this point to be fucking terrified of even the mere mention of ‘Voldemort’ and ‘sex’. On the other hand, we had fantastic sex a few weeks ago, and I definitely wasn’t complaining through any of that.

 

This is going to sound ridiculous, but it sort of feels like that moment right before I pull a Wronski Feint. The idea of vaulting myself thousands of feet in the air is terrifying on general principle, but I know that I’m capable of executing it correctly (and have done so thousands of times) and I have nothing to fear. Terror at the idea of having sex with Voldemort is a perfectly rational response, even if I know that this time I don’t have anything to fear.

 

I frown at my food, stabbing a particularly stubborn carrot.

 

Working with this analogy, I can probably use the same technique I used to get over my fear of the Wronski Feint to get over my fear of having sex with Voldemort, right? Except, how exactly did I do that? I munch thoughtfully. I’m pretty sure Ron pushed me off my broom, is how that happened.

 

Great, I mentally despair. I don’t think Ron is going to be much help with this one. I set my fork down with great finality, sighing to myself. Well, if I can’t make up my mind the least I can do is try not to be… overtly sexual or anything. The last thing I want to do is turn him on. Except I unintentionally accomplished that already. Right. No more Quidditch breeches.

 

A pop to my side distracts me. I smile softly when I see that the tray of food has been cleared and a bowl of ice cream has replaced it. Vanilla—my favorite. These house elves know me far too well.

 

I shift around on the chair, trying to get comfortable when I’m still in muddy, soaking wet clothes. I look up and accidentally meet Voldemort’s gaze—which has not strayed once from me—and hastily pull my eyes away the moment they make contact with his. He still seems pretty engaged in that fantasy of his. A thought occurs to me; I’m probably only making it infinitely worse by fidgeting around like this. But what am I supposed to do? Trying to take them off is only going to do more harm than good right now.

 

I decide to distract myself with dessert. It works rather well; dessert is my favorite part of any meal, in no small part because I went so long without it. That’s probably why vanilla is my favorite; I’m so unused to sweet things that the more elaborate flavors only serve to give me a toothache. I make a happy noise of approval, practically cleaning the entire bowl in one go.

 

I make the unfortunate decision to look up then, meeting Voldemort’s eyes once again. They are dark and devouring, and the heat of them catches me in comprehensive surprise; so much surprise that my spoon falters right before it reaches my mouth, and I end up halfway missing and getting most of it all over myself. And the chair. This poor piece of furniture.

 

My scar twinges, and not in an unpleasant way. It’s burning, but the smoldering heat only serves to warm me pleasantly, not burn me into incoherent pain. I look up again; it only takes one glance at him to realize I have made the situation infinitely worse.

 

 _Hell_ , I think disparagingly, flushing in the most horrendous fashion possible. What did I think was going to happen? I am eating a sticky, creamy white liquid substance and I’ve just gotten it all over myself.

 

I stand abruptly, red in the face and refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m—um,” I give a flustered, incredibly vague wave to the other side of the room, “Uh, just gonna change… out of this…” And then I make a break for it, deciding that the only way to stop making this situation worse is to just vacate the premises.

 

 _No_ , I think mournfully as I scurry away, knowing Voldemort, _the only way to stop making this situation worse is to put a paper bag over my head and cover myself with a burlap sack._ Or maybe that would just make him think of bondage. Oh hell.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I escape into the shower, intent on sitting in here forever and dying here. As it is I just silently freak out and try not to get mud everywhere.

 

Why can’t I just make up my goddamn mind? It’s not as if I’m debating the merits of nuclear war with the Russians or something. This isn’t rocket science. Actually now that I’m thinking on it rocket science might be the lesser of two evils here; at least with science you can rationalize things out and rely on logic to find your answer. Feelings have nothing to do with rationality—if anything, they always seem to be totally irrational—and follow no sense of logic.

 

I should just go for it, I decide, even though I would prefer to do anything but. I’m psyching myself out—going with my running Quidditch analogy, it’s the same thing I do before a big game. A part of me is saying I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this, I just want to go back to Gryffindor tower and sleep. The other part of me is catching the game winning snitch.

 

By the time I turn off the shower I feel determined enough to see this through, grabbing a towel and a change of clothes, before deciding the clothes are counterintuitive and just going with the towel.

 

He’s not there when I walk out, which is awkward.

 

I look around, suddenly at a total loss at what to do. I hadn’t thought up a contingency plan for this scenario. I take off the towel, attempt to dry my hair one more time before I hop into bed and snuggle under the blankets. He’s got really nice sheets, okay. And pillows. Actually, the bed is nice as a whole. For most of the time I’ve known him it’s been the only saving grace to staying with him.

 

The soft fabric is comforting, but not nearly enough to stave off my own rampaging thoughts. Above all else is an anxiousness that angers me as much as it unnerves me. I hate this feeling; fear and anticipation and the cold feeling of being trapped of your own volition.

 

I hear the door open, and footsteps approaching the bedroom, and I feel as if I should look up or something but instead I just keep hiding under the blankets. Hah, some Gryffindor bravery. I can’t hear him; my breath catches in my throat and I feel like my heartbeat drowns out all the sound in the room. I almost jump when the bed dips behind me, and then a long, warm line of skin slips in behind me. His hand makes a cursory pass over me, stopping with surprise when his fingers grasp my waist, pulling me closer.

 

“You’re not wearing any clothes,” he notices, darkly.

 

I shake my head, too nervous to say anything else.

 

For a long moment, I wonder what he’ll do to capitalize on this. Then his hand dips lower, over my stomach, before smoothing up my chest. Cold fear freezes in my throat, and I remind myself how ridiculous it is for me to be afraid. His lips graze against the nape of my neck, and if anything it makes it worse.

 

“You’re trembling,” he observes, breath hot and wet and making it even worse.

 

This is stupid, I point out to myself, and make a conscious effort to stop. I turn over in his arms, until I’m facing him, pulling his lips to mine and trailing my hands over his arms, shoulders, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. A numbness washes over me, one as familiar as an old friend. It is accompanied by a sharp relief. It is so much easier to slip into this feeling—so much easier to face the world like this. I am not particularly aware of my own fingers, making work of his shirt, or my mouth, moving against his own.

 

When he rolls me underneath him I feel indifferent to it; it doesn’t bother me when he slowly spreads my legs apart, when his mouth lowers to my neck. My tremors have stopped, leaving nothing but a hollow cold that I welcome with open arms. His lips return to my own, glowing red eyes peering down at me with an overwhelming desire.  I register this, but have no discernible reaction to it, receding into myself until I am submerged in a state of impassivity. I don’t feel nervous: I don’t feel anything. A slight desire to start up my ceiling tetris, maybe. My mind is made of only idle thoughts, a skimming surface with nothing beneath or above.

 

I feel his hands roving over me, fingers skimming down to grasp tightly at my hips, pulling me flush against him. When his lips return to mine after a long, leisurely tour of my body I open up for them diligently. They still quite suddenly, his eyes caught in my own.

 

They blink in surprise, growing wider, and then he is pulling away.

 

He sits up abruptly, leaving me cold and confused. His expression is volcanic and—conflicted. I don’t understand it. He looks like he wants to curse me, livid anger in his eyes, but he does nothing of the sort.

 

I sit up on my elbows, resurfacing from my hiding place and staring up at him in confusion. “What’s wrong?” What am _I_ doing wrong, is what I’m really asking. This is what he wants; it is spectacularly obvious. I don’t get where this anger is coming from.

 

He doesn’t answer me, looking upon me with features I can’t read. Or at least, I’m pretty sure I can’t read them, because what I’m seeing now makes no sense. There is anger, a great deal of that, and frustration, and fear. It is a quick flicker in his eyes, but it is there nonetheless. This above all else confirms that I’m reading him wrong. The dark lord is not afraid of anything, least of all a naked, defenseless boy.

 

“What is it?” I continue, when he remains silent. “What—“ I swallow thickly. “What do you want?” From me, goes unsaid. Because it is clearly something I’m not doing for him that he wants me to do. Except I cannot think of anything else he could possibly want from me.

 

“Not this.” Is his curt reply.

 

I blink incredulously at him. Is that a joke? Who’s he trying to fool here? “Not _what_?” I feel clarification is in order.

 

He makes an irritated noise. He moves away, actually rising to get out of the bed, reaching for his robe hanging on the bedpost. “Nothing,” he returns, inscrutable. “I have matters to attend to. You are free to return to your school if you like.”

 

To my surprise, I find myself catching his arm before he can get too far. “No,” I shake my head, feeling like the air has left me. “I don’t—that’s not…” I give him a helpless glance. Why is he so goddamn difficult? I try to scrounge up whatever Gryffindor courage I have left, deciding that this is an issue that seriously needs to be addressed. One I had thought had been solved—clearly I was wrong.

 

“Please tell me,” I curl my fingers around his arm, pressing beseechingly. “What am I doing wrong?”

 

He looks surprised by this. “Nothing,” he says again, after a beat.

 

“Then why—“ I make a frustrated noise. “Why do you keep _stopping_?”

 

He is silent for some time. So long that I assume he has no intentions of enlightening me. But his eyes are bright in the gloaming light, and the rage and frustration has drifted away, leaving an expression I can’t read. He searches me at length, quiet and thoughtful.

 

“Because you don’t want it, Harry.”

 

I stare at him, uncomprehending.

 

My mouth parts slightly, eyes growing wide.

 

Oh.

 

I close my gaping jaw eventually, swallowing reflexively. “Why—“ My throat feels so dry, all of a sudden, and all the air in the world seems to have left me. “Why does that matter?”

 

Because it hardly mattered before, so I don’t understand why he cares now. That is such an… insignificant thing to worry about. At least, for him it is. It’s certainly the last thing I expected him to say. Why does he care? It occurs to me that there is absolutely no way I will ever get an answer unless I ask. It is clearly not the kind of rationality I could logically walk my way through.

 

I frown, confused. “Why do you _care_?”

 

I expect him to lash out at me for that, but the dark lord only sighs. “Because I want you to want it, Harry.”

 

This is patently untrue. “You’ve never cared about that before,” I point out.

 

Something pensive flickers through his eyes. “No,” he agrees. “And it was remiss of me.”

 

I remind myself that air is necessary, drawing in a ragged breath. “What do you mean?” He is so close that I can feel the heat of him against me, even though we’re not touching. He doesn’t speak for a moment, gaze trailing up and down in tandem with his fingers, light against my skin.

 

“I wanted to own you,” he says, hands squeezing against me, almost reflexively. “I did own you—you were mine, in every capacity. You were exactly how I wanted; submissive… obeying every single command I gave you. I had complete control over you… but it wasn’t enough.”

 

I don’t say anything at first.  “Oh.” I say, stupidly,  feeling like getting that one word out was perhaps the hardest struggle of my life. I have a question, but I don’t want to know the answer. I need to, though. I need to know. “What… changed?”

 

“I thought that, perhaps, there was an even greater way of claiming you, and I was simply missing it.”

 

I snort, something occurring to me; “So… you thought the answer was a baby?”

 

He makes a noncommittal noise. “I’ll admit… the idea of you seeing you grow round with my child, and knowing that I did that to you—pleased me, but no.” 

 

My eyes flutter shut at that, the idea of it a little too much for me. Because I _can_ imagine it—far too easily.

 

“It wasn’t that, but what occurred afterwards. I fed you a love potion that night—did you know?”

 

“Yes.” I scoff. That was kind of obvious.

 

“It was all a fallacy—but you were—“

 

He cuts himself off, staying silent for some time. I pull my head out from its hiding place in his neck, blinking curiously. He had no trouble telling me everything up until now… so what’s so horrible that he can’t say it?

 

“Different.” He finishes, at length, and before I can fully comprehend this he flips us over, until he’s looming above me and I’m trapped in the cage of his arms. His eyes are darkened with a dangerous desire, but a secret thrill runs through me anyway. “So very… responsive. And it was captivating. You were so eager and willing; open in a way that had never happened before. You _wanted it_.”

 

I blush a little at that. Yeah, I remember; it was all very mortifying and I would prefer to never acknowledge what I said that night for the rest of my life.

 

His hand moves to thumb against my bottom lip; my eyes slip shut when he presses in slightly.

 

“It was all so addicting—a surrender far more rewarding than any I had made you do before.”

 

His thumb pushes in further, and I find myself opening for it, letting it slide past my lips. “It was exactly what I wanted.” I open my eyes; his own are staring down at me, smoldering and intense.

 

He pulls his thumb away. “But it was all al lie.”

 

“And I couldn’t get it back. No matter what I tried that satisfaction eluded me. You did everything I told you to, but not the way I wanted; you obeyed me in everything,—but there was always something missing. I wanted you the way you were that night, but couldn’t find a way to command you to do it again.”

 

His gaze is far too overwhelming, suddenly, and I feel trapped in it, pinned down.

 

“It was so very frustrating; I couldn’t _command_ you to want it. Perhaps I could go through the motions—making you do as I like—but it was never going to be enough anymore.”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” I whisper, softly.

 

I feel really slow, and I don’t have the words to formulate a response. I wrap my hands around him and pull him down onto me, for no other reason other than that I wanted him to be closer. I don’t know who I’m trying to reassure right now. I guess it doesn’t matter, the silence is comforting regardless.

 

I break it eventually. “I don’t…” I start, helplessly. I don’t even know what to say to a confession like that, On the one hand, it’s really enlightened me to his recent about-face. On the other; _what am I supposed to say to this_. Is there a book on this kind of stuff? I vow to ask Hermione the next time I see her.

 

I swallow thickly, not oblivious to the way his eyes are drawn to it, as if he’s thinking deeply about other things I’ve swallowed. The thought makes me severely uncomfortable, and nervous, and fearful. But for as much trepidation I feel there is an equal amount of heat that curls in my stomach at the idea of it.

 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I release a shaky breath. More importantly, I don’t know how to feel. “I’m still… I don’t…”

 

“I don’t know if I can give you what you want.” I shake my head, tense with a cold fear. The idea of having sex again makes something constrict in my chest.

 

His expression is inscrutable. “And what is it that you think I want?”

 

“Well, you know, um—doing _that_.” I blush, furiously.

 

He looks down at me, unreadable and without response.

 

“Isn’t it?” I prod, only half-way sure myself.

 

“No.” Voldemort returns, after a long moment of deep scrutiny.

 

My throat runs dry as I try to swallow. “Then… what? What is it?”

 

“I want to own you, Harry.” He says, very simply, as if this is a perfectly acceptable remark, with the same tone of voice as someone speaking ambivalently on today’s weather.

 

“Um,” I say, because how exactly is one supposed to respond to that. Finally I gather enough of myself to reply; “…Don’t you already?” I feel it needs to be said. Has he forgotten that we didn’t actually break that contract?

 

He scowls. “No.” His expression remains inscrutable. “I wanted to own you; to possess you completely, to—to break you.”

 

His hand rests against my head, curled tightly and shaking with a foreboding force; it is the only thing that gives away what he really feels. Suddenly he releases it, and something irritated and yet regretful crosses his features.

 

“In hindsight I suppose this was a valuable lesson.” He admits, begrudging. “I wanted to own you—but you cannot own someone who doesn’t want to be owned.”

 

I nod slowly, feeling confused but strangely relieved. So it’s… not about the sex? Or is he saying that it was all simply a byproduct of what he really wanted, which was me, submitting to him? Either way, something quiet and warm unfurls in my chest.

 

I smile at him. “Well, you figured it out eventually.” I can’t help but say. My humor dissipates into a pensive consideration. “I still don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

 

His eyes darken, and then he is quickly leaning down to brush his lips against mine; it is sharp with possession, as if he wants to keep the smile as his own. He has a thing for them, I think, which only makes that warmth grow tenfold.

 

“I’m not asking you to,” he returns, when he releases my mouth. And then, perhaps a bit exasperated, “That would defeat the whole point, wouldn’t it?”

 

I blink. “Oh. Yeah, I guess so.”

 

With that, he rolls us until we’re comfortably under the blanket, and I’m fitted snuggly against him. For some reason I find it perfectly acceptable to reach for his hand wrapped around me, holding it with my own, to lean back and sigh happily at the mouth against the nape of my neck. He is clearly aroused, but seems uninterested in doing anything about it. The observation is enough to keep that quiet warmth in my chest going the whole night long.

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I don’t know who I hate more right now, Professor Flitwick or Hermione. As it is I glower at the both of them. Those bastards. I think I hate them both equally—at the very least, they are both equally to blame.

 

It was Professor Flitwick who decided to add acting to his choir sessions, after all. I had assumed the charms professor was quite content with his singing students but apparently I was wrong. He wants more than just a choir—he wants an opera.

 

At any rate, it was Flitwick’s idea to have the Spring Equinox play, The Four Fair Witches. Apparently the whole thing is a Hogwarts tradition—at the very least, I can be silently grateful we’re not doing the _Fountain of Fair Fortune_ , which apparently has been a Hogwarts classic for some time now. This is great and all; a play is wonderful! What fun for the students! I wouldn’t have minded, honestly. What does it matter if he has all the Gryffindor boys as the strangely talented dancing village folk? Or the Slytherins as the Duke’s castle servants (this was particularly hilarious); some Hufflepuff girls as fairies and some Ravenclaw boys as the mages?

 

No, this would all have been perfectly reasonable for me. Cutting in to Quidditch time, sure, but still reasonable. The Four Fair Witches is apparently a classic, and I wouldn’t have minded having to be in it.

 

Aside from the fact that _I_ am one of those four fair witches.  

 

And it might have been Flitwick’s idea to revive the Hogwarts theater, but it was Hermione who volunteered _me_ as the lead role.

 

“I think you’ll make an excellent girl,” she enthuses, smiling at me winsomely.

 

“I hate you,” I glower at her, not even bothering to comment on that on general principle. As if my life wasn’t complicated enough. Ron has been laughing uncontrollably for the past hour. He doesn’t even care that he is also technically a girl—because he is peasant girl with about five lines, most of them in song. Him and Seamus are actually delighted at the idea of wearing bonnets. Meanwhile I am some sort of princess with at least five dozen lines.

 

I vow to find a way out of this stupid play.

 

Why me, anyway? There are plenty of fair witches in this castle; many of who would jump at the opportunity to flaunt themselves about on a stage. Lavender I know for sure is raving in envy every time she looks at me. I wonder if this was actually some sort of ploy I unknowingly walked into involving Lavender and Hermione using me as a proxy. I knew Hermione, as a prefect, had the opportunity to conspire with Professor Flitwick on the titular cast of the play; one of the four lovely ladies for each of the Houses.

 

I would like to reiterate my point: I am not a lovely lady. But Hermione obviously was not going to offer herself, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to offer it to Lavender, or any of the other Gryffindor girls, so she offered it to me. Actually, no offering was involved. Flitwick jumped at the suggestion, as he had already enthusiastically went on to cast most of the men as women, and most of the women as men. Everyone seems quite on board with this—on a related note, everyone has lost their goddamn minds. Can no one but me see how greatly alarming this is?

 

Hermione laughs meanly. “Come now Harry, I think the stockings will look just lovely on you—a wig too, perhaps?”

 

I shove her away, as she and Ginny continue to cackle in their corner, conspiring new ways to embarrass me further.

 

“Oh come on, mate!” Ron calls to me in good cheer, as I stalk up to the Gryffindor boys room. Because I am a boy. “Everyone’s doing it—‘s just a bit of fun is all!”

 

“Bit of fun.” I repeat, flatly. “This is your idea of fun? Ron, what are we going to do about Quidditch practice?” I point out, because this above all else should speak to Ron on the severity of it all.

 

Ron blinks, before exchanging excited looks with beaters Jimmy and Ritchie. “We should wear the dresses,” he snickers. “Can you imagine what a hoot it’ll be? Filch’ll have a fit when he sees all the mud on them.”

 

I am seriously appalled. And speechless. I decide my best bet is a hasty retreat.

 

Hermione follows me up the stairs though, nabbing me before I can make it into the safety of the dormitory. “Harry,” she says, quiet and serious.

 

I gently shake her off, sighing. “Hermione,” I scowl at her, but if comes off less angry and more exasperated.

 

“I’m sorry,” she’s quick to say, eyes big and wide. “I didn’t mean to upset you—I just thought, well, everyone else seemed to be having a grand time of it… and when I suggested you—as a joke, I swear—the other prefects jumped on it and Professor Flitwick though it was an excellent idea; also honestly I do think you’ll make a lovely lady—

 

“Hermione it’s fine,” I harrumph. “Really—

 

“And you’ve just—you’ve been so sad lately,” Those doe eyes are doing terrible things to my heart, dammit. “And I thought that, I dunno, you’d get a laugh out of it too, maybe cheer you up a bit. I’m sorry if it’s just making everything worse, we can always give the post to Lavender…

 

“And have her be the only one of the four fair ladies to actually be a girl?” I raise a brow. “And come on, are you seriously suggesting you didn’t do this just to spite her?”

 

“Maybe a bit.” Hermione agrees, shameless. Because Lavender had practically been frothing at the mouth at the idea of being the fair witch of Gryffindor—and the leading lady of this bizarre spectacle. And Hermione has been conspiring ways to sabotage her ever since she latched herself onto Ron like a carnivorous sarlaac intent on eating his brains, and this was the perfect opportunity. Hell, she might get them to break up just on the sheer enthusiasm Ron has on being a girl, and the sheer lack of enthusiasm Lavender has on Ron being a girl.

 

I mean, I suppose I do see the humor in it all. It surely has taken my mind off of graver things… like Voldemort. And Dumbledore. And whatever the hell Malfoy is up to. Hell, this might just be a blessing in disguise—with Malfoy one of the reluctant fair witches he might have less time to be snooping and getting himself into trouble at the behest of Voldemort. But this is to say nothing about Snape. Oh hell. Just thinking on it is giving me a headache, and I haven’t even started on the subject of Quidditch! The team is in horrible shape, and I’ve already missed most of the year to whip them into some semblance of decency.

 

“I’m not mad,” I say, truthfully. Slightly irked, maybe, but in the grand scheme of things this really isn’t all that bad. “Use me as your vehicle of revenge if you must; but I draw the line at shiny red heels, you hear me?”

 

She fucking beams at me. “Pinky swear!”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Sixth year trudges on in a most tedious manner. Christmas comes and goes; it’s the first Christmas I’ve spent with the Weasley’s since I got roped into this mess. They are overjoyed to see me—as am I, of course. But I am also a little concerned. Voldemort let me go with little to no fanfare, leaving me wary and suspicious and… worried, I guess. It’s not about fearing for my lives and others, it’s far more… personal than that. We’re in a rather confusing place right now. To the point I sort of wish we were back to our predictable but horrible relationship.

 

Wait, that’s not true. Whatever we are is far better than what we were before. Far more difficult, but better.

 

Anyway the holidays pass without remark; Quidditch is steadily progressing; and the play is actually serving to amuse me more than irritate me. The good mood of all my classmates has sort of infected me as well. It’s just light hearted fun, is all. Watching Ron attempt to dance and sing is perhaps the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all year. Seamus is far worse, but far more enthusiastic.

 

Unfortunately this just means I spend more time at school and less time with Voldemort, leaving us in this strange stasis that isn’t getting any better or worse.

 

I suppose things were bound to come to a head eventually.

 

I’m not sure how I can tell I’m dreaming—it doesn’t feel like a dream. It is far too lucid; it is still disorienting and hazy, but I have enough clarity to come to terms with the fact this isn’t reality.

 

More to the point, that this isn’t _my_ dream, either.

 

And if it’s not mine than it would stand to reason that it’s his. We share the same soul, it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to assume we could share the same dream, too. And this definitely isn’t my dream, first and foremost because I am staring down at myself and—huh. Is that really what I look like? I think he has a very skewed perception of me; I don’t think I’m actually that hot.

 

You wouldn’t be able to tell that though from the way he is devouring me with his eyes.

 

I look down at myself with no small amount of satisfaction. It doesn’t seem like me; this rapturous creature that manages to elicit a desire so overwhelming that it almost scares me— _him._ Him. It scares him; this isn’t me, I remind myself. These thoughts aren’t my own. I am lost in them anyway.  Regardless whoever this person is that I’ve become, he derives great pleasure from the sight of him; he is very addicting—more importantly, this boy is _mine._ My possessiveness alarms me, but this does not deter me from leaning down to sear a deep mark onto the milky skin just above his hip. He draws in a sudden, startled breath, and when I release him there is a darkened mark in the shape of my mouth; the only blemish to be found on an otherwise unmarred expanse of delectable skin.

 

I want to ruin him: there is a darkness prowling just beneath my fingers, waiting to tear him apart. It is such a gratifying sight—but one that has lost its value to me. I don’t want to see him crushed and desolate, that lifeless gaze peering up at me, as if nothing exists behind it anymore. I don’t want to break him, or at least, not like that.

 

No—I trail a hand down the length of his body, making a fine shiver in its wake. There are far better ways to ruin him.

 

And there is nothing quite as beautiful as Harry Potter when he begs, when he shudders apart with only the touch of my fingers, when I finally manage to break him. Perhaps most captivating are the tears; they inspire a fervor within me like no other, streaming down his face, full of pain. But a pain carved from, pleasure, frustration and desire. 

 

I spread his legs, languid and slow, as if I have all the time in the world. He has taken his bottom lip between his teeth, bottling those delightful, needy little sounds he has been making. No matter—it is only a matter of time before I will have him screaming for me.

 

He looks up at me with an expression of tormented anguish. A very tempting sight, but not enough to speed up my torturously slow pace. I lower my fingers to his entrance; I know the moment he feels them, for he closes his eyes with a sharp inhale—a tiny noise escapes him when I spread them apart. It is, as always, an unfathomably tight fit. This incenses my desire as well as my concern; it is nearly impossible not to cause him pain, no matter how thorough I am at preparing him. I carefully probe deeper, just barely brushing against the bundle of nerves deep within him. He jolts in surprise; the movement dislodges his lip, his eyes snap open, and the sinful little noise that escapes him is almost enough to undo me. It doesn’t quite, but it is enough to break my patience, and it’s not long before I am fucking into him in earnest.

 

I look down upon the sight of him with great hunger; his eyes have fluttered shut again, and beneath them is a rising color; his mouth is ragged and thoroughly abused by my own, gasping for air; his pendant is hanging lopsided off his heaving chest, leaving nothing left but a lovely line of marks around his neck, strung like a collar.

 

“What do you want, Harry?” I breathe into his ear. His eyes open at that, glazed over, pupils blown with delirium. I keep my fingers in him, pressing lightly where I know he wants it most.

 

“I—I don’t…” He swallows thickly. I press harder; his back arches, taught, and a choked moan escapes him. “Oh, _oh_ —fuck… I don’t know. I don’t know—“

 

His standard answer. This doesn’t deter me; he is on the edge of losing himself to pleasure, it will only take another little push… I still my hand then, spreading my fingers apart, stroking that spot inside him with increasing pressure until finally—

 

“More— _please_ ,” he breathes, rapturous. And then, louder, “ _I want more_.”

 

An almost overwhelming tide of lust runs through me at that. It’s so very hard to deny him anything when he begs so nicely. Even more so when he is erotically splayed out beneath me, easy and willing. A satisfaction swells within me when I gaze down at him, knowing that he is mine—and perhaps more importantly, knowing that he _wants_ to be mine. For he has always been mine, ever since I laid my mark upon him as a child. And though it is far more difficult to get him to do anything of his own volition rather than just demanding it of him, it is always far more rewarding. There is nothing quite like it—nothing more corrupting than the taste of his sweet surrender; nothing so satisfying as watching him give in to his own pleasure—give in to _me_. It is utterly addicting: it is also impossible to give up.

 

He stirs uncomfortably beneath me, and I realize I have been staring, unmoving, for some amount of time, blinking out of my thoughts to once again fixate my full attention onto the boy in front of me. He watches me back, peering through his lashes, just a strip of brilliant green visible.

 

“What?” He demands, defensive and hesitant, a cheeks pinking after a long moment under my gaze. How he can still be embarrassed is beyond me, but it is an appetizing sight nonetheless.

 

I don’t answer him, deciding it is high time to claim what’s mine.

 

Whatever he’s going to say dies a still death when he I line myself up to his entrance. A shiver runs through him when I press in slightly, just barely spreading him open. I breech him carefully, intent on causing him as little pain as possible, but it is not exactly an easy task; he is always so agonizingly, wondrously tight. I search all minute expressions that darts across his face, categorizing each and every one with thorough detail—there are so many of them, and they never stop eliciting my full fascination. The way he looks at me is not an expression I can understand, but I don’t want it to leave nonetheless.

 

I am acutely aware of each and every emotion—even more so when they all disappear; his hands clench ineffectually at the sheets, and he lies very still beneath me, head tossed to the side, gaze resolutely fixated on something in the distance. It is a sight I have seen many times before, and one I am not fond of.

 

I frown, tilting his face towards me with an alarm I refuse to acknowledge. The concern is unwarranted; it is not an empty look that gazes back at me, a look as if the tenant has long since left, leaving nothing but a hollow vacancy—rather, something soft and uncertain. Diminutive, but no less significant.

 

He releases a shuddering breath when I am fully inside him, and as always, it is a struggle not to give in to my desire and pound him into the mattress, until he is screaming for me, begging for me, thinking only of me. That will come, if only I have the patience to wait for it. Regardless, it is a struggle; his inner passage flutters against me, clenching, as if begging me to spread him wider and fuck him ruthlessly. And he always makes for such an enticing sight, writhing beneath me, face screwed up in both pleasure and pain, looking so helpless as he tries to relax for me.

 

Small hands reach up to my face, turning my attention towards him once again. To my surprise, he pulls me down, gently but insistently, to catch my lips with his own. It is sweet and timorous; I am very unused to both. But not as much unused to it as I am with the feel of his soft kiss; unfamiliar, but pleasing nonetheless. He pulls away then, and a very strange feeling overcomes me. It is foreign and… not particularly pleasant. Actually, it sort of feels like a stomach ulcer.  

 

I ignore it, far too engrossed in the sight before me. There is not a sight more alluring than his small, shy smile. A look that has been lost to me for far too long. Every time I see it a marked, urgent possessiveness spreads through me; I want to claim it somehow. I want it to be mine.

 

“You can move now,” he whispers to me, and this is not an invitation I intend to pass up.

 

I pull out just as slowly as I had entered him. After a beat I thrust back into him; his breath hitches and his eyes flutter open, hands catching against me insistently.

 

“Um,” he says in a tiny voice, wincing. “Actually, I take that back.”

 

I am not sure why I find this particularly endearing, but I indulge him and halt my movement—not an easy task. 

 

There are so many emotions flittering across his face, ever changing, each more enticing than the last. It is impossible to catch each and every one, but that is irrelevant. All that matters it that each and every one of them are _mine_ —they are all, entirely, for me. This above everything else—his sweet surrender, his body splayed beneath me, his little moans and gasps and whimpers—elicits a distinct triumph and satisfaction within me.

 

 The immobility gets progressively more difficult; his brow furrows as he pants very softly, fingers sporadically gripping my arms. His inner passage clings to me, so warm and tight it is getting impossible to stay still. He shifts then and tightens around me, writhing ineffectually on my cock.

 

I breathe in sharply; it takes considerable effort not to move.

 

“Tell me how it feels,” I demand of him, because I want to hear it in his own words.

 

He smiles, dry. “It hurts.” He deadpans, as if that should be the obvious conclusion. But then he shakes his head, smile growing into something genuine. “But it’s good,” he says.

 

And then, quieter: “ _Thank you_.”

 

I look down upon him curiously. “For what?”

 

He buries his head against my shoulder. “For waiting.”

 

And then he seems to just—relax, all at once, closing his eyes and rolling his hips to take me in even deeper, body opening up for me so deliciously. I have made him submit to me before, but never like this. I want to claim him; brutally and savagely, so that he never forgets who he belongs to.

 

“Okay,” he says, laying back, sprawled against the bed sheets. Like an invitation. He peers up at me through his lashes, gaze searing hot. “You can fuck me now.”

 

 _That_ is definitely an invitation. I withdraw slowly, surging back in just as slow. He aches his back into it, making an unintelligible noise of pleasure.

 

“Do you like that, Harry?” I puncture this with an aggressive thrust that he is not prepared for. A little gasp escapes him as I start a slow surge into him, and he has to grip the sheets to brace himself.

 

“I—“ His breath comes out sharply. “I, um…”

 

“ _Do you?”_ I murmur against his neck, drawing my lips upwards. I enjoy speaking the serpent tongue to him; the shiver it never fails to elicit.

 

“Yeah I do,” he breathes, leaning up to press his mouth to my own. I reward him with a particularly deep thrust, beginning to fuck him in earnest.

 

“Oh, oh— _oh_ ,” he throws his head back, bearing his smooth, perfect neck, and the collar of bite marks surrounding it. A low moan escapes him when I thrust into him deeply, impaling him onto my cock and making him feel every inch of it. He squirms a bit, releasing a whimper as he struggles to take it all in, and I grab his hips fiercely to stop him from getting away.

 

Finally he lies there submissively, his deliciously tight hole clenching around me impotently. I hold him in place and slowly lower him until he is fully seated on my cock, he makes a mewl of distress, writhing ineffectually. 

 

“Tom, I can’t take anymore,” he paws weakly at me, panting. “Tom, oh, _oh_ , please—

 

I brush my lips against his damp forehead, before moving to the shell of his ear, “ _Just a little more, Harry._ ” I tell him, darkly, intently watching as I sink even deeper into him.

 

He whines, clutching at my arms and squeezing around me like a vice. I place reassuring kisses over his brow, smoothing his hair back as he releases a long, shaky breath. His expression of both pain and pleasure is exquisite: so sweet and yielding. I actually lament the fact that I never truly took the time to savor every moment of this. It is so pleasing to watch him take in my entire length, in slow and excruciating detail. I never gave him any time to adjust before, and the sight has proven to me more rewarding than almost everything else I’ve made him do thus far. I don’t know if it’s because the idea of him giving in to me so fully is so alluring, or that the sight of it is so alluring. At any rate, though there is nothing that I would like more than to watch him struggle to fuck himself on my length the entire night long, if I let him I’ll lose the opportunity to do what I really want to do.

 

I pull out then, slow but unrelenting, never once stopping to let him adjust before pushing back into him, just as slow. Soon enough he is arching his back, rocking into each thrust and breathlessly moaning for more. It is always so difficult to deny him when he begs so nicely.

 

“Yes, Harry?” I purr into his ear, surging back into him. “You wanted something?”

 

“Yes…” He draws in a breath, eyes squeezing shut as I thrust in to the hilt. “Yes, please…”

 

“Please what?”

 

But he does not answer, clenching at the sheets.

 

“What do you want, Harry?”

 

Finally he looks up at me with big, glassy eyes, panting softly. “I’d like it harder, please.”

 

It’s probably not even intentional, but the sweetness of it sears through me, and then I am pulling out and tossing him face first into the sheets, pulling his hips up and surging back into him with a force that almost throws him into the bedpost.  He cries out in pleasure, before he ducks his head in against his arm, muffling himself. I watch him with amusement. He can hide all he likes for now; he will be screaming for me soon enough.

 

.

 

.

 

I wake up with a sharp intake of breath, eyes flying open. I’m choking for air like I just sprinted down the Quidditch pitch. And, for the first time in maybe years, I actually remembered what I dreamed about. Remembered—and clearly gotten off on it. I look down to where I am wet and sticky, waving my wand to clean it with a shrug. Whatever. Some people might be embarrassed about getting off on a wet dream: there’s nothing better than getting off without putting forth any effort for it, I say.

 

Still this doesn’t disregard the fact that I was having a dream that may or may not have been my own. It didn’t _seem_ like mine; I certainly don’t have the imagination to make up something like that, for one. But on the other hand, I’ve never shared a dream with him before. Maybe he just didn’t raise his occlumency barriers? It’s not as if I have any, so it couldn’t have been me.

 

I turn accusingly to the man in question, still fast asleep beside me. I’m a bit envious; why does he get to continue the fantasy but I get woken up? Well, whatever. At least I got off on it.

 

Got off on it pretty well, at that. I feel boneless and incapable of moving right now, flopping back onto the bed sheets and worming around until I’m comfortable again. But the idea of sitting here lounging about as Lord Voldemort lays beside me having all sorts of sexy dreams about me is making me mildly uncomfortable. What is he dreaming of now? Something kinky, undoubtedly. Maybe he has me tied up with snakes, blindfolded. Or maybe its chains? Maybe he’s reliving our first two years together. That thought makes me grow cold and uncomfortable.

 

I close my eyes, remembering the feeling of it. I had the intense urge to—well, bang my dream-self into the mattress, but there was also an underlying affection and even maybe genuine concern for me. It almost seemed as if he didn’t want to hurt me. But that, I find rather hard to believe.

 

I leap out of the bed, deciding to beat a hasty retreat before Voldemort even wakes up. I have an excuse, too. Not only do I have Quidditch practice today, but we’re also doing our first full-length rehearsal for the play, and Ron has triple-dared me to wear the dreaded shiny red heels. Seamus promised if I could dance a whole minuet in them he’d turn himself into a monkey for a month. I intend to make good on that promise.

 

At any rate I’m silently thankful for Hermione and her seriously vindictive ways, because thinking of all the lines I have to remember means I’m not thinking about that totally crazy, totally invasive (totally hot) sex dream I shared with Voldemort. It’s hard to think about Voldemort, actually, when I’m dressed in a corset and toulle skirt that _definitely wasn’t that short yesterday,_ and stockings that refuse to stay on my thighs.

 

“You look like a pedophile’s wet dream.” Ron sniggers, losing his shit the moment he sees me.

 

“You did this, didn’t you,” I accuse him, pointing to the skirt that used to be floor length, and now is _barely_ mid thigh. “Fix it.”

 

He throws his hands up in the air. “Wasn’t me!” He swears.

 

“It looks good, Harry!” Dean enthuses, good-naturedly.

 

“Yeah,” Seamus agrees. “At this rate, you might even look better than Malfoy.”

 

I don’t quite know whether to take that as a compliment or not. I cast a wary glance towards the Death Eater in question, who is wearing an equally tight torture device wrapped up in ribbon and a bonnet. “At least I don’t have to wear that damned bonnet.”

 

“I like the bonnets.” Seamus gasps.

 

“They look like a giant bird laid poorly colored pancakes all over your heads.” I shoot back, crossing my arms.

 

“You all are taking this way too seriously.” I hear a sardonic voice come up from behind me, and then slim, feminine hands are leaning down to tug the hem of my socks higher up on my legs. It would be rather scandalous if it wasn’t Hermione.

 

“Am I wearing these right?” I turn to her in greeting. “They keep falling down.”

 

“Use a shrinking spell.” She advises, looking up the striped stockings reproachfully. “I don’t really think green is the right color for you. Shouldn’t we be putting this on Malfoy?”

 

“Don’t give Malfoy the sexy witch costume!” Ron protests. “He doesn’t deserve it!”

 

“Yeah, at least not Malfoy! At the very least, Corner will wear it with more aplomb than Malfoy.” Are Neville’s sage words of advice.

 

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Sexy witch outfit… what is this, Halloween?” No one gets the joke but me, and I snicker in silent laughter. Halloween is a respected event here in the Wizarding World, but back in the muggle world it’s just an elaborate excuse for everyone to dress up like a slut. “And why _is_ this skirt so short?”

 

“No idea.” I answer truthfully. “I was hoping you could help me with that.”

 

Hermione makes a noncommittal noise. “I’m no seamstress—I suppose we could get Filch to take a look at it.”

 

“ _Filch is a seamstress_?” I hear Seamus guffaw from behind me.

 

“Alright, take it off.” She commands, imperiously. “I’ll talk to the Hufflepuff boys running wardrobe to see if they have something else for you to wear for now.”

 

“Or I could just wear my uniform?” I call to her hopefully as she walks out of the Great Hall, but to no luck.

 

By the time everyone has finished breakfast and we’re starting the rehearsals for real Hermione has unearthed some ancient, apparently priceless artifact from a few centuries ago that is even worse than my current one.

 

“Nevermind,” I say quickly, giving it the evil eye. “I’ll stick with this one. Don’t worry about the skirt.”

 

She gives me a nonplussed look. “You’re really going to walk around in that?”

 

“Better than looking like the Iron Maiden.” I shudder, grabbing the hideous thing and shoving it back onto the rack of outfits. Some of them are really quite hideous: all of them are actually real dresses from the medieval times. I feel like actual costumes would be far more amenable and comfortable.

 

“Harry?” I hear a voice call out to me. It’s one of the little Ravenclaw first years, put in charge of logistics. He looks far too excited to be here. “Harry Potter? We need Lady Olga at the front please.”

 

“Oh, Dammit.” I hike the stockings up even higher, toeing out of my sneakers to look for the actual shoes. I don’t see them. “Um, Hermione, have you seen my shoes?”

 

Her eyes go wide. “Oh Harry,” she bemoans, “Please don’t tell me you lost them! That’s a priceless artifact!”

 

“I don’t think I lost it,” I assure her, pathetically. “And why are we using real outfits anyway? This wouldn’t be such an issue if we just used normal shoes!”

 

“Because it’s the Hogwarts play, Harry, it’s tradition! Some of these dresses were supposedly made by Helga Hufflepuff herself!” Hermione looks as if I just told her the apocalypse was tomorrow. “Harry, those shoes belonged to Helena Ravenclaw—and you _lost_ them.”

 

“They were ugly anyway.” I protest, feebly.

 

She gives me a particularly aggrieved look.

 

“Okay, okay. Look, they’re not lost. I think I know where they are.”

 

“You do?”

 

“I think so.” _I hope so_ , I wisely do not say.

 

.

 

.

 

 

I don’t actually know where they are, but I’m taking an educated guess. I keep most of my stuff in a rucksack that houses all my books, ill-kept and unwashed clothes, an assortment of socks and occasionally Quidditch gear and, hopefully, those stupid shoes. Hermione told everyone I was having bowel movement issues (thanks, Hermione) and to use the understudy while I was indisposed, so I have at least an hour or two before people start questioning the severity of my illness. At any rate I take the necklace portkey out from underneath the collar of the dress, praying silently that Voldemort is still asleep.

 

Fat chance of that, the man is an early riser. Fortunately he is awake but does not appear to be in his rooms, because I land in an open, empty study with no one to be seen.

 

I give a mental cheer, before looking around. “Okay, okay—let’s see… sparkly shoes, where could you be? You’ve got to be around here somewhere…”

 

Well, there’s the spot where I normally put my backpack. I narrow my eyes, dropping to the floor to squint down into the small black hole that exists beneath the couch. I do not find the shoes, but I do find my lost quill, three packets of ice mice, a chocolate frog, practically all the pairs of socks I’ve ever owned and my Astronomy textbook. Damn, I have been looking for that thing everywhere.

 

“Looking for something?”

 

My eyes widen, and I bolt upright, cursing liberally when I hit my head on the bottom of the end table.

 

My face flushes and I immediately pull my skirt down, turning back to see that yes, indeed, that is Voldemort. And my shoes, dangling from his fingers.

 

“Um,” I squeak quickly, panicking, “Uh—I can explain.”

 

He raises a brow. I think he might even look a bit amused. His gaze trails down to my outfit—okay, that is definitely amusement. To be honest, the thing hasn’t really bothered me in a while now, considering it’s practically in vogue with all the Hogwarts boys. No one bats an eyelash because everyone’s in some ridiculous frilly get-up: no one is cross-dressing in Malfoy Manor though, and my embarrassment returns tenfold.

 

“Can you?” He practically purrs. “I’m quite interested in hearing this explanation.”

 

Oh god. I should have taken Hermione up on that hideous pink monstrosity—at least that one would cover me up… this one leaves _nothing_ to the imagination. I don’t even think I can talk I’m so horrified; what the hell is he going to think? He probably thinks I’ve gone crazy. I can’t think up any explanation that doesn’t sound absolutely absurd; yeah, the whole school is cross-dressing so I figured I’d hop on the band wagon. Actually, I decide the truth isn’t all that bad and just go for it.

 

“There’s a play going on at Hogwarts…” I begin slowly, feeling like I might internally combust from all the heat rushing to my face. “And uh, well, I’m in it…”

 

“This does not at all explain why you’re wearing that—“ He pauses. “What is that?”

 

“Supposedly a Hogwarts antique,” I reply, feebly.

 

Voldemort smirks—it is slow, dangerous, and makes my stomach flip over. “It suits you.”

 

I think I’m insulted. It’s one thing for Hermione to tease me over it, but a whole other for the dark lord to. Except… I don’t think he means it in a malicious way. At least, I hope he doesn’t. This is embarrassing enough as it is—the last thing I want is have to suffer through a half hour of him totally berating me.

 

“Oh. Well… thanks.” Because what the hell else am I supposed to say.

 

He gestures then to the couch, I throw it a look, before hesitantly moving over to it. I sink down slowly, cautiously, keeping a wary eye on him, in case he decides to do something. I don’t know the look in his eye, and there’s nothing worse than an unpredictable Voldemort. You never know when he’s in the mood to be a sick fuck.

 

Except, to my unending disbelief, he sinks to the ground in front of me. I’m so surprised I don’t know what to do.

 

Then he carefully grabs one of my legs, running a hand up and down the fabric before returning to the sneakers I’m wearing. With more care than I thought possible he unties my laces, slipping the shoe off my foot in a weirdly torturous manner. I’m not sure how I managed to get more red, but I must be approaching a tomato at this point; I don’t know what it is about this that has me so flustered. It’s just a foot, honestly. The first time I put these shoes on I had to get Lavender Brown of all people to show me how. Academically I don’t see how this is all that different.

 

But maybe it’s because this is the dark lord in front of me, kneeling down, slipping my foot into the shoe in a way that is so fucking sexual—how is he even doing that?—his eyes practically eating me alive.

 

I find it very hard to breathe, suddenly. Without all the ridiculousness of the play to distract me my thoughts dive right back into the dream I had, the sheer heat of it, how he had that same look in his eyes then as he does now. Is he thinking the same things? God, I can only imagine. I close my eyes shut tightly: I don’t _want_ to imagine.

 

“Harry,” he demands my attention once more; I don’t need to open my eyes to feel his hands trace up my legs, sneaking up under all that fabric to skim up my thigh…

 

My eyes snap open then, and I unintentionally hold his gaze as he slides the other sneaker off, wanting to look away but feeling as if it is impossible to find my way out of those burning red eyes.

 

This should not be this hot. Belatedly I spare an amused moment to wonder if Voldemort has a foot fetish—wouldn’t that be hilarious—before my mouth runs dry as he slips on the other shoe, releasing my leg to stand up to his imposing full height, towering over me. There’s a brief moment where neither of us move; we’re just staring at each other, and I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking of that dream.

 

And then like lightning he’s pulling me up to my feet and dominating my mouth in a bruising kiss. I feel lightheaded, and I’m not sure if I stood up too fast or if it’s really just his tongue doing funny things to my head. For the first time in my life there is not a small spark of trepidation when I feel his lips against my own, his hands wandering up under my skirt, playing with the hem of my socks. Actually, I leap at him, literally, wrapping my legs around him and enjoying the startled look of surprise when he staggers backward to balance the both of us. The surprise is short lived, and then he’s nipping at my bottom lip, not even asking for entrance, just plundering my mouth like he already owns it.

 

I groan at the thought, getting hot at the idea of it. He deposits me onto some kind of surface—things go clattering to the floor, so I’m going to assume it’s the desk. He doesn’t even break the kiss, waving his wand to divest me of my clothes.

 

Except… my clothes don’t come off.

 

He notices it too, pulling away with an incredulous look. He waves his wand again. Nothing.

 

I’m gasping for breath, equally as surprised before it comes to me why they’re not budging. “Hogwarts artifacts,” I pant, catching my breath. I guess Hermione wasn’t joking when she said they were priceless magical artifacts. Only something very old or very powerful can withstand charms and spells.

 

I see that glint in his eye. “You can’t rip it!” I blurt out. “It’s priceless!”

 

Voldemort makes a disgruntled noise, moving to start on the truly absurd amount of ribbon that’s holding this thing together. There’s about ten seconds of him looking down at the contraption as if it’s the most difficult, complex spell he’s ever seen, before ultimately he grows impatient enough to just try to slip it over my head. That works about as well as the rest of his attempts, and eventually he gets so annoyed with it he just pulls me off the desk, spins me around and bends me over. Problem solved.

 

 _What an ingenious idea_ , I think dazedly, amused. This probably should have been the obvious conclusion, but I will forgive the both of us because neither of us is thinking straight right now.

 

Suddenly my eyes snap open, just as he grabs my hips. Oh no. Oh _shit_ , he can’t pull my skirt up, he’s going to see—

 

He flips the skirt up, and I make the stupid choice to look back at him miserably to see his expression. It is nothing short of gleeful.

 

He loops a finger around the edge of the panties, pulling back to watch it snap back against my butt. His expression says it all: I scowl back at him, attempting menacing and missing by a mile. I turn around, burying my face in my hands, wishing this desk would swallow me up so I can die here. If not through suffocation than by sheer embarrassment. “Oh, fuck off.” I tell him, because I can only imagine what kind of remark he’s going to have for this. In my defense, what else was I supposed to do? I can’t exactly where boxers underneath this, and there’s no way in hell I’d go without any underwear at all.

 

“Now Harry, that’s not very nice.” Fuck him, and the stupid smirk I can practically hear in every one of his words. “I think I rather like them.”

 

“Stop making fun of me!” That too was supposed to sound menacing, but comes out more like a plaintive whine.

 

“Making fun of you? But Harry, I’m being serious…” He pulls the many layers of skirt up, so he can get a better look. “I like them a lot—I might just have to make you wear these more often.”

 

I blink at that, surprised. “You do?” I ask, skeptically.

 

He laughs quietly at that; and dammit, why is it that I feel like I could take all this embarrassment and more if only to make him laugh like that? Still, I can’t help but feel happy that I can make him laugh—genuinely, warmly—even if it’s at my expense.

 

“Oh, Harry…” That smirk might just be a smile now. “It’s as if you tempt me on purpose.”

 

I flush again. “T—This one wasn’t my fault!” I insist, hotly. I didn’t intend to be a part of this play, or the lead role at that.

 

“And yet the event has fallen into my lap nonetheless,” he remarks, darkly. “And how could I pass on such a wonderful opportunity?”

 

How did this go from mortifying and embarrassing to such a turn on? His voice alone is arousing.

 

“What do you think, Harry?” His tone is seriously distracting; melting like butter and making raw heat crawl up my chest—but doesn’t quite distract me from the fact that he’s actually asking. The heat disappears for a moment, replaced by something soft and far more dangerous. He asked.

 

That in and of itself is enough to seal the deal. “I think that’s a great idea.” I whisper, looking back at him.

 

He peels the panties off very slowly, tugging gently with both hands until it slips over my butt; he doesn’t take them off all the way though, simply lowering them enough to expose me. My head thumps against the desk—fuck, why is that so hot.

 

He works one finger into me so slowly I have to wonder if he wants me to beg. If so, he might just get what he wants at this point. I moan in approval, in case my approval wasn’t obvious enough, straining upwards to make it slide in just a bit further. He lays his other hand over the small of my back, pinning me down. Fuck, why is that also hot? I can’t do anything but lie here and _take_ it.

 

“Do you like that, Harry?”

 

Is this a rhetorical fucking question? Yes, goddammit, what does it look like?  “Yeah…” I reply, too breathless to voice my severe irritation at his lack of progress on the finger fucking thing.

 

“Do you want more?”

 

“ _Yes,”_ I groan, straining as I feel the tip of a second finger just barely inside of me.

 

He thrusts them both in sharply, making my back snap taut in surprise, a strangled noise coming out of me. I squirm around them; they’re so deep, but they’re not _moving_. “Beg me,” He purrs.

 

“Goddammit,” I swear—probably not the best way to start this. Damn, I used to be so good at this… “W—What do you want me to say?” I’m so aroused it’s getting hard to breathe, let alone think straight. This has never happened to me before.

 

“Well I don’t know Harry, why don’t you tell me?” He is totally getting off on this. Unfortunately so am I. “How are you going to convince me?”

 

“Oh, fuck, Tom, I don’t know what you want me to say…” I try to move on his fingers, but his grip tightens. I make a very unhappy whimper at that. “Tom, please… come on…”

 

He seems somewhat appeased, making a noise of approval, but he doesn’t move his fingers. This is way too difficult, what is he expecting right now? I mean he can’t hold on forever right? Because I don’t think I’m going to come up with anything that could sway him… my eyes widen. Or maybe I don’t have to come up with it: maybe I already have.

 

I turn around, attempting by best _please-fuck-me_ look. “I’d like it harder, please.”

 

That is more than enough to break his patience. I’d be more triumphant about this but he crushes me down even more, fucking me hard, just like I asked.

 

 

 

 

His other hand tightens against my thigh, so hard I think he might be leaving bruises. Then without warning he hooks a finger underneath the seam of one sock, stretching it far enough for it to snap back against my thigh with a stinging slap. I make an aborted groan at that—just another reminder of what this all must look like, what _I_ must look like. What had Ron said earlier, a pedophile’s wet dream? Oh, if only he knew…

 

He gets up to three before I start feeling like I’m about to lose my mind. He’s always so good at this, stretching me in all the right ways, knowing just where to press his fingers… my desire is short lived, as he withdraws them all slowly. I know what’s coming next, and its like a bucket of ice was poured over me. The white hot lust recedes, leaving nothing but a cold, anticipatory fear. He nudges my legs apart, spreading me wide open to press lightly against my entrance.

 

There’s the murmur of a lube charm; my chest is pounding, heart beating a tattoo against my ribs. He leans over me—I can feel his warm breath against my neck, the reassuring kiss he places on the sensitive skin there. My eyes flutter shut. It is so small and insignificant a thing, but it relaxes me nonetheless.

 

He surges in with one long, excruciating thrust; not hurried, but certainly not slow. I’m not sure if it’s better this way, all at once, or if I’d prefer him to go slowly, inch by inch. I don’t know. Something tells me he’d still feel far too big for me either way. At any rate I’m relieved to find that he doesn’t seem to be in a particular hurry to move; it’s easier to get used to the full girth of him when he’s completely inside me and staying still. It’s easier, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I still feel like his cock is far too big to ever quite get used to.

 

He gives me what feels like hours to adjust, but it’s still not enough. I stifle a whimper of pain when he pulls out, and have to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood when he thrusts back in. When he’s completely sheathed he holds himself there, grabbing one of my legs and propping it on the table. I hear a rip when he bends my leg, which means he totally ripped my only pair of panties. Dammit, I needed those things. I don’t have time to mourn their loss, because this new position stretches me far wider, and suddenly he doesn’t feel like he’ll split me in two. I have to sit up some to balance on the leg underneath me, and my toes barely touch the ground; he begins to pound into me in earnest, and I have to hang on for dear life in fear of falling over.

 

The reason for the change in position becomes clear when he squeezes my thigh in a bruising grip, before running his hand up and down my leg.

 

“These socks,” he groans, surprising me, “These fucking socks…”

 

For a moment, I’m too stunned to form an opinion on this. Then my shoulders shake in silent laughter—so it’s the socks that really get to him, huh? My humor doesn’t last for long, because then he’s ramming back into me, and in this position it’s enough to stir up my latent desire. He hits my prostate every time, and it’s not long before I’m snaking a hand underneath my skirt and grabbing my definitely interested arousal. He pushes the breath out of me on every stroke; I feel like I’m about to burst, so close to the edge that I can’t do anything but mindlessly moan for more.

 

To my distinct displeasure he stops abruptly, just when I was so fucking close. I almost feeling like cursing him out for this. But then he is releasing my leg, pulling out and maneuvering me onto my back.

 

I look up at him with wide eyes, too turned on to be amused as he runs his hands up and down my legs, before throwing them over his shoulders. Then he plunges right back in with one long, smooth thrust; my back arches, all the breath leaving me. He pushes my knees to my chest, and it’s almost too much—he feels impossibly large like this, like he’s going to break me if he tries to move. Fortunately he doesn’t—he is too enamored with his socks. I throw an arm over my face to hide my smile as I watch him gaze intently upon them, bringing a reverent hand to draw up the inseam. What is it about them that has him so fascinated? I guess I can’t blame him; who can resist their fuzzy, striped allure?

 

My utter humiliation and embarrassment at wearing this ridiculous outfit has turned into a searing lust, in no small part because it’s clear Voldemort is getting off on this—getting off, and getting totally obsessed. I have the feeling I’ll be seeing many different costumes in my near future.

 

It does not take long at all for both of us to finish, something about this whole encounter so overwhelming it seems impossible not to. Even in this position he nails my prostate every time, the pleasure sharper than the sting of pain that accompanies every thrust. I wish I could say that it was his cock that pulled me over the edge, but really it was the look in his eyes as he gazed down at me that pushed me into oblivion. He was not all that far behind, fucking me through my orgasm, until I was so sensitive I didn’t think I could take anymore of it. He comes with a long groan, so deep in me I actually wince in pain.

 

After a moment he moves to pull out, and my eyes snap open, grabbing him with a force that surprises him before he can move too far. “Don’t pull out.” I tell him, breathlessly.

 

He raises a surprised brow.

 

I blush furiously. “I—I mean… I, uh, can’t get this dress dirty.” And that’s exactly what’s going to happen if he pulls out. I can only imagine Hermione’s face when I come back with cum stains all over this thing.

 

“You care that much about it?” He seems to be genuinely asking.

 

“It’s priceless!” I remind him. “I can’t get it ruined.” Hermione will kill me, I add silently.

 

He makes a noncommittal noise, tugging the fabric out from underneath me. When he holds most of it in his hands, he carefully pulls out. Even this slow it stings a bit, and when he pulls out completely I feel strangely empty with the loss.

 

I wind my hands through his hair, catching my breath. Even through all the layers of clothing I can feel his heartbeat, just as erratic as my own. For some reason that’s really reassuring. He moves away from me then, pulling me up with him.

 

I stand upright, feeling very sticky and uncomfortable. When I rub my thighs together their slick with come. Voldemort eyes me up, before he waves his wand and cleans me, much to my surprise. I know very well how much he enjoys the sight of his come dripping out of me. My relief comes too soon though, for he waves his wand again and conjures up a pair of panties.

 

I scowl darkly at him.

 

At least my other pair was plain cotton and totally unremarkable; this one has lace and a pink bow and some sort of checkered pattern. I raise a brow, amused by Voldemort’s choice in underwear. My amusement lasts until he walks over to me, kneeling before me once again. My eyes grow wide with first surprise, and then embarrassment when it becomes clear he wants me to step into them.

 

I am still scowling deeply as he pulls them up my legs, but I am also flushed as red as a tomato, so I once again do not look nearly as intimidating as I intended. This too is far too hot for real life. It could have seemed like an innocent gesture, if he wasn’t totally feeling me up in the process.

 

When he’s slipped them on and adjusted them to his standards, he also takes the time to straighten out my skirt. The undue attention is doing crazy things to me. When he’s finished he stands up to his full height, and it’s then I realize how close we’re standing; close enough to breathe him in, lean against his chest. He noses into my hair, breathing deeply, his arms around me.

 

“And what is the point in this thing?” His hands have found the ridiculous bow in my hair, fiddling with the silk.

 

“I don’t know,” I reply hotly, wishing the ground would swallow me up whole. “I didn’t exactly dress myself.”

 

“Yes, I suppose that was obvious.” He agrees, amused. I believe he is attempting to fix the thing, much to my annoyance. Whatever, if it’s crooked it’s his fault anyway. “What are you supposed to be, exactly?”

 

“A princess.” I grouse, hiding my blush into his shoulder. He laughs, much to my surprise, and I have to hide my smile in the fabric of his robes when I realize I’ve once again managed to make him laugh.

 

He gently pulls me from my hiding place, tilting my head to capture my lips with his own.

 

I’m not sure how long we stand like that, but finally he pushes me away gently, holding me at arms length. “Go back to your play, Harry,” he tells me, eyes dark and heady. “Before I forget myself once again.”

 

A part of me wants him to. Then there’s the rest of me who thinks that a hasty retreat is an excellent idea. I nod quickly, fixing a flustered gaze to the floor while I fish out my pendant, quite studiously not meeting his eyes as I portkey away.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

I return to Hermione with the shoes, tactfully leaving out the fact that I’ve defiled yet another Hogwarts historical artifact. No one will ever have to know just what happened to this dress—who knows, maybe next year some unsuspecting lad will have to wear it. I snicker quietly at the thought.

 

I’m off to Quidditch practice with a bounce in my steps. I finagle a pepper-up potion from Madam Pomfrey for my ‘bowel movement issues’, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to have a bounce in my steps at all, let alone be able to sit down on a broom. The Gryffindor team is coming along excellently; I can’t wait to trash the Hufflepuffs next week.

 

I’m still in a good mood all the way through the day, until it is time to retire for the evening. All my friends are heading up to the common room to play exploding snap, but I beg off, inciting once again my elusive ‘training’. No one calls me out on it, though I do see Hermione spare me a worried glance. I disappear down a hallway, looking around before I activate my portkey.

 

The Dark Lord is reading in bed, doing that thing where he looks hilariously old and domestic. I’m sure whatever it is that holds his attention is certainly not some light evening reading; more than likely it’s something to do with the war. Scrolls are scattered about him, and he looks to be concentrating deeply.

 

I shift my weight nervously. “Hi,” I say, lamely, drawing his attention away from his work.

 

“Harry,” he intones, and there is perhaps something soft to his tone. Other than that he makes no acknowledgment of me, deeply engrossed in his work.

 

I look around, not knowing what to do. I can’t tell if he wants me to leave him alone or not… well, I suppose if he did he’d make no qualms in telling me right? I shake my head, moving to shrug off my outer robes and fold them on a nearby settee. I toe off my shoes, moving to unbutton my shirt. I chance a glance up at him; he appears to be enjoying the show—at the very least, he is watching intently. There is still a bit of apprehension at this, but it is overtaken by the little thrill that runs through me when I realize I’ve got all his attention, and not even the war would keep him from watching. Finally the shirt falls open, and I pull the tie loose as well. The rest of the strip tease is significantly less interesting, and when I crawl into bed with him I’m surprised he doesn’t immediately pin me to the mattress.

 

Actually, he doesn’t do anything. He spares me an amused look, before he returns to his work.

 

I almost want to ask him what it is he’s working on, before I think better of it. The war isn’t my concern, what do I care?

 

With this thought, I cocoon myself in his sheets, snuggling happily with his pillow. Whatever. I’ve done more than enough for this stupid war. Let other people handle it.

 

I should have known that it doesn’t really work like that.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

It’s weird to think the play is over. I feel like it was only just yesterday Flitwick was joyfully calling my name for one of the lead roles; some whispered in surprise, others laughed. They laughed a lot harder when Malfoy was called up soon thereafter.

 

I actually ended up greatly enjoying myself. It was just so… so bad. In no small part because all the boys were girls and all the girls were boys; I have to admit, no matter how many people tell me I look great in a flouncy dress, I would make a hideously bad girl. I’m far too gangly and awkward for one, and I walk like a duck in these shoes. At any rate, Neville surprised us all with his two-octave voice, and Seamus did actually manage to dance a minuet for five minutes in those shiny red heels. It was with great sadness that I returned my dress; it grew on me, really. I named it Yolanda. I had good memories with Yolanda, it’ll be sad to put her back in storage until the next time Flitwick is feeling whimsical.

 

Hermione points out that it’s ridiculous to be so disheartened about a piece of clothing. I agree with her. All the same I miss it—maybe not the dress, but what it meant in the abstract. All of a sudden finals are upon us, Quidditch is getting harder, and life is stressful once again. That play felt like a brief reprieve from everything, but the world and all its problems had never really left, they had just been swept to the corners for that moment. It’s not the dress so much as the curious, untroubled spirit it had given me. For Ron though, I really think it was the bonnet.

 

I’ve seen Voldemort only once since we defiled our second Hogwarts historical artifact.

 

I’m not even sure if it counts; I spent most of the afternoon lounging on a sofa in his study, ostensibly doing homework but really just waiting for him to come home. I ended up falling asleep long before that. I wake up the following morning with another blanket over me, which means he came home at some point, and had spared me enough thought to conjure a blanket for me. Still, that’s a moving gesture from him.

 

It’s strange to think I actually _want_ to see him. It has been the exact opposite for the entirety of my life. And just when I want to see him he’s not around.

 

Sometimes in the night I’ll feel him over me; lost in dreams but lucid enough to make out his form in the darkness, the tender hand brushing over my forehead.

 

I don’t think he’s avoiding me on purpose. I think he’s just busy. This isn’t the first time that’s happened—I remember long stretches during the summer where he was sometimes gone for days. The difference was that I rejoiced those moments of solitude. Now they just make me feel listless and concerned. Because if he’s not here with me, he’s out there doing… something. Who knows what. Not slaughtering the muggle masses, but probably something equally as horrible.

 

It’s a sobering thought. There is more to him than what I see. This about face of his is a new development; I fear it is only a matter of time before he reverts back to the terrifying, evil man he used to be.

 

Just a week ago everything seemed fine. Weird, but fine. Voldemort was around all the time, and even seemed to be in good spirits for the majority of it. If there were problems in the outside world, he made no show of them. Just a week ago we were having sex over his desk, sleeping in bed together, having discussions on _feelings._

 

It all feels so far away now.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

I fear something very bad is going on. Voldemort has been strange lately—distant, but then he always is to some degree. But he is so rarely at home, to the point that I’ve given up going over there because he’s never around anyway. He hasn’t summoned me: the only times I see him are when I portkey to his manor on the off chance of seeing him and he is actually home. Even then he is quick to return to whatever it is that holds his attention so completely.

 

There are a lot of things that hold his attention, but I don’t think it’s all that narcissistic of me to say that there are very few things that hold his attention like I do. So whatever it is must be important to him indeed.

 

I can think of one possibility off the top of my head.

 

“Do you think Dumbledore’s been gone a lot recently?” Ever since that one time someone tried to kill him with poisoned wine but accidentally ended up making Ron break up with his girlfriend—ahem, Malfoy, ahem—he’s been traveling a lot these days.

 

“Has he?” Ron looks up, not looking particularly interested. “Maybe.”

 

Hermione rolls her eyes—as if she could possibly still be surprised that Ron finds his shepherd’s pie more interesting than the current state of affairs. I wish I could be just as distracted as Ron, but unfortunately there are no bonnets, singing toads or sparkly heels to distract me now. The play is over. It was more fun that I had expected it to be while it lasted, but now I have nothing to distract my thoughts from Voldemort, the war, and the correlations between the two. Not even Quidditch manages to fully grasp my attention.

 

Her eyes fixate on me, probing. “Do you know why?”

 

I shrug inelegantly.

 

“It’s the war, isn’t it.”

 

“I’m assuming,” I sigh at length. “I don’t really know what else it could be.”

 

Her brows furrow. “You don’t know what he’s doing?”

 

“Not at all.” I answer honestly. Nor do I care.

 

“But you…” She trails off, confused. “I thought you said you were spending all this time training with him.”

 

Uh—oh shit. Did I say that? I can never keep my lies straight. And with a person like Hermione it’s almost downright impossible anyway. I freeze up, only condemning myself further when her eyes narrow at me. “Aren’t you, Harry?” She presses, scrutinizing me.

 

“Well, um, yeah. But y’know, we don’t really talk about… that kind of stuff…”

 

“Then what on earth do you talk about?”

 

I’m so fortunate Ron is eating, otherwise he might actually have been listening in. As it is Ron is incapable of eating and listening at the same time, so I’m in the clear. “Can we talk about this later?” I plead with her, quietly. Hopefully she sees something imploring in my eyes, because she nods.

 

Later is after classes, when we have snuck our way into the deep recesses of the library, far removed from our peers. I look up: the history section, but of course.  What other section would be so thoroughly unused? I wait here as she goes about collecting books from other sections that actually have relevance, and busy myself by hopping up onto the counter and splitting the spine of some book about the history of centaur hooves as potion ingredients. Ew. I have no idea what to tell her, and I’ve been thinking on a plausible lie all day. In the end, I have nothing but the truth, and who the hell knows how that will turn out.

 

Rather well, actually.

 

Her eyebrows are doing some crazy dance as she covers her mouth with her hand. I’ve just spilt my deepest, darkest secret to her—okay not really, but it’s the principle of the thing—and this is her reaction? I expected a bit of anger, honestly. I wonder if this whole contract thing counts as betrayal.

 

Hermione takes a deep breath, looking around as if her impeccable anti-spying and muffling charms could have possibly gone out in the interim.

 

“Okay,” she starts, taking a deep breath. Meanwhile, I’m holding my breath about to turn blue in the face with anxiety. “Firstly—this whole thing is so wrong and unethical on so many levels… and I am deeply disturbed and disgusted by this system, and feel betrayed by the people I thought I could trust. I mean, how could they do this to you? This is horrible! This is practically slavery!”

 

Well at least her righteous anger is not directed towards me. “You’re not mad at me?”

 

She gives me a flummoxed look. “Why in Merlin’s name would I be mad at _you_ , Harry? No, of course not, none of this is your fault. Dumbledore, on the other hand… I trusted that man! I blindly followed him and would never have even known that he was capable of such things…”

 

“Trust me, I’m no fan of him either,” I snort, before adding, “But are you really that surprised? Dumbledore has always been about the greater good—in this instance, he’s probably right. What is my life in exchange for everyone else’s? For yours?”

 

“That’s not his decision to make.” She retorts, firmly. “He can’t just, just sign you off like cattle or something! You’re a person!”

 

Hermione deflates after that, taking a calming breath. “With that out of the way,” she begins anew, “I am still utterly furious, but I really can’t get over the—… the socks, really? Why the socks?”

 

I smirk at that; I figured she’d get a kick out of that. “I think it was the whole outfit, really.” I remark, offhand. “But yeah, dunno. They’re just socks. I swear though, you’d think they hung the moon or something with the way he was worshipping them.”

 

“That’s hysterical,” she marvels, raising a hand to her mouth.

 

The smile disappears then, turning into something somber and defiant. “But is he… is he treating you right?”

 

I blink. “I’m sorry?”

 

“I just can’t imagine…” She trails of, shaking her head. “It’s true he doesn’t hunt muggles or muggleborns anymore, but that does not by any means suggest he’s a nice man, or that his character has changed whatsoever.”

 

“Oh, he’s still horrible,” I remark, offhand. “And I will admit it was…” I swallow thickly. “Unpleasant, in the beginning. But recently it’s been… alright, I suppose.”

 

I would really prefer not to get into the details with her right now, or ever, really. Just like with Uncle Vernon, this is one thing I will take to my grave.

 

“So… do you like him?”

 

The question catches me off guard. A flash of Tom, hovering over me, eyes wide with wonder as he traces the smile against my lips—another of him violently throwing me onto the floor, standing up with a furious expression.

 

“No.” I answer, flatly. No, I really don’t. He’s a horrible, evil man. He killed my parents, and has made multiple attempts on my life; that’s to speak nothing of how horrible he’s been to me thereafter. It’s a sobering thought: I really ought to remind myself of this more often.

 

She throws a conflicted gaze my way. “But… you’re sleeping with him.”

 

Of course she would catch that, I think, resigned. Hermione is far too perceptive for her own good. Or maybe I’m just far too transparent.

 

“It’s—“ I hesitate for one damning moment. Her eyes are so wide and grave. “It’s complicated.” I finish, lamely.

 

Hermione bites her lip. I expect her to bombard me with more questions—the alternative is far worse. She throws herself at me and starts bawling, and it is the most horrifying thing to ever happen to me. What the hell do I do with a woman sobbing on my shoulder? Women are scary. Crying women are even scarier.

 

“Hermione, it’s alright,” I pat her back awkwardly. “It’s alright…”

 

“It’s not,” she sniffles, muffled by my shoulder, “I’m so sorry, Harry… I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I point out, but I think it goes unheard. She shakes her head against me, but says nothing else.

 

Well, I think this all went quite swimmingly, in all honesty. I was expecting something far more dramatic. This long crying spell aside, I think this has gone splendidly.

 

“And anyway,” I remark offhand, “I haven’t seen him in what feels like forever.”

 

She pulls away, sniffling and wiping her eyes. “I thought you said you were staying with him.”

 

“Well, yeah—but he’s never home anyway.”

 

Hermione stills at that, a pensive expression clouding her features. She sniffs again, dabbing at her makeup, looking deeply introspective. “Harry,” she starts, slowly. “Do you think there might be a reason for that?”

 

“I’m assuming.” I shrug. I don’t think he’s randomly disappearing to play cricket or something.

 

“Does he do that often? Just, disappear?”

 

“Not really—or rather, he hasn’t in a while.” I pause, thinking. “It happened a lot this summer.”

 

Hermione nods, frowning deeply. “This summer…” She repeats, biting her lip with concentration. “There were a lot of Death Eater attacks this summer.” She notes, quietly.

 

Were there? I never had much contact with the outside world; not to mention, I never cared much for it anyway.

 

“Have there been any now?”

 

“Well, no.” She agrees, sounding unsure. “But that doesn’t mean much. It might just be that they haven’t been reported yet—or, they’ve yet to happen.”

 

Like that isn’t ominous.

 

I shake my head. “Well, there’s no point in worrying about something that hasn’t happened, right?”

 

Hermione does not look convinced.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

I hate when Hermione is right.

 

So, Dumbledore almost died today. There was an attack on his life, perpetrated by Draco Malfoy—he managed to get Death Eaters into the school, wreaking chaos on the students and causing some serious property damage. But it had less to do with Malfoy and more to do with Professor Snape; he was the one who threw the killing curse apparently. Fawkes intervened somehow, so the Headmaster lives on. That’s a lot of shit to happen on a rather unsuspecting Wednesday evening.

 

I’m not sure what to make of this.

 

It feels so strange to remember that there’s a war going on… that I was bargained off to mitigate part of it, but not all of it.

 

No one in the school knows what to do with themselves—myself included. What do I do? Above everyone else, I’m the one in the precarious position. Where exactly do I stand in this war? Am I on the Dark Lord’s side, because of the contract? Or is it my morality that I stand by—which is steadfastly against the idea of killing off the muggles and muggleborns and you know, the wizarding world at large.

 

I don’t know what to do.

 

I avoid Hermione at every turn, withdrawing into all the quiet spaces in the castle; my favorite alcove in an abandoned tower on the east wing, the owlery steps, a dust covered fountain courtyard. I don’t use my pendant. I don’t even know if I can, anymore. I don’t use it—and neither does he. He has not called me back. I do not count the days, but they bare their mark on me all the same.

 

I wonder if he thinks of me, at all.

 

That shouldn’t hurt as much as it does; is he done with me, finally? After all of this, he’s just going to, what, throw it all away?

 

 _I guess it was all a lie, then_. I think, bitterly. Just when I thought he was starting to genuinely care—is that a joke? Hah. Voldemort is incapable of caring; a fact that I am very familiar with. At least I can console myself with the thought that I never truly let my guard down around him; I still always thought the worst in him. Apparently my subconscious has more foresight than my actual conscious. At some point as I stew in my own silent anger, the warm summer wind and the twinkling firefly lights lend an ambivalent quiet to the air. It’s almost enough to cool my fury—almost, but not quite. It is, however, enough to finally break the last of my patience.

 

He was attempting something like this, in my own school, and he didn’t even think it relevant to tell me? Why now? I mean, I knew something was going on, but I couldn’t have expected this. I gave him time to explain— a two weeks now, at the very least. If he’s not going to deign me with an explanation, then, well, I’m just going to rip one out of him myself then.

 

Without further ado—and while I still have this insensible bravery—I tug the necklace out from underneath my shirt, grasping it in my hand and activating it.

 

.

 

 

.

 

 

.

 

 

The manor is cool and quiet in the darkness.

 

At first I do not see him, squinting into the indeterminable shadows. Finally my vision clears; it’s not a room I’m familiar with, but that doesn’t matter. It is the man by the window that matters. He stares contemplatively at the starless sky, quiet and still. I don’t think I have ever seen him so unmoving.

 

“Tom?” I whisper, fearfully, because something isn’t right. All the anger I had washes away, leaving me feeling small and bare.

 

I move closer, hesitant, wondering if today is the day he returns to his former self and throws an unforgiveable at me. Or chains me up and locks me in a dungeon. Or finally decides he’s over all this stressful emotional bullshit and just kills me. He doesn’t do any of that, but to that end, he doesn’t actually do anything at all. I reach his side, and he is still staring deeply, insistently, out into the gardens.

 

I suck in an alarmed breath when I see his expression; total, uncontrollable rage. It instills a tidal wave of fear within me. I don’t really know what regard he holds me in, but whatever it is I don’t think it will be enough to save me from this kind of anger. Someone has really, really pissed him off, and I hope it wasn’t me.

 

My Gryffindor bravery (or stupidity) has me pulling gently on his sleeve, moving into his line of vision as I peer up at him. “What’s wrong?”

 

Finally his gaze drifts away from the world outside, focusing in on me with an uncomfortable amount of intensity.  I feel cold and shaky and maybe even a bit sick; I don’t think I’ve ever been terrified enough for my fear to elicit an actual physical response, but I guess I just never had to face the full brunt of this vesuvian expression.

 

It’s enough to make me flinch. I want to crawl out of his gaze and hide, but that wouldn’t solve anything. And who else but me could possibly fix whatever situation made him so angry in the first place?

 

I search his features, nervously. “…Tom?”

 

Or maybe I’m completely wrong.

 

Maybe _I’m_ the problem.

 

“Harry,” he replies, unreadable—toneless. “What are you doing here?”

 

I toss him a wary glance. What am I supposed to say to that? I haven’t felt this terrified of responding to him in a very long time. “I…” My throat works: nothing comes out. “I, um…” Everything I planned to say has left my head. School, right. That’s what I’m here for. It is impossible to work this explanation out of my throat, however.

 

“I didn’t summon you here,” he continues as if he hadn’t heard my feeble attempts at explanation—as if he’s actually summoned me in months. I can’t remember the last time he summoned me. I’m always going to him. The reminder is striking. And ominous. 

 

“Uh, right.” I remain wary and ill at ease, very carefully keeping a safe distance away, watching his wand for any sign of movement. “I just… I wanted to…”

 

I wanted to yell at you for attacking my school with crazed Death Eaters, but I’ve lost my confidence suddenly, you see. You look rather frightening today, and my self-preservation has kicked in, and is wisely telling me to keep my mouth shut. I do not say this, of course. But all the same, this is not exactly the _only_ reason I’m here, and unfortunately I have enough self-awareness to admit that. It wasn’t just my anger (okay, deep annoyance) that made me come here; that might have been the catalyst, but ultimately it was my own nerves. My own fear.

 

“I wanted to see you.” I tell him, in a small voice.

 

He ignores this. “Return to your school, Harry.” He commands me, not even bothering to turn around and face me.

 

Something is very, very wrong here. His face is cold as stone, expressionless, and I would have thought him perfectly calm if I wasn’t keenly aware that he was about to erupt into a rage of unknown proportions. I know his mercurial moods better than anyone else—and have the foresight to realize that this is very bad indeed.

 

Enough foresight to wisely not speak on the matter of Hogwarts, and his recent attack on it, but not enough to realize that I’m playing with fire, that I should just shut up and leave.

 

“Are you… mad at me?” I hazard, carefully. I’m not sure what I could have done, though.

 

Finally, he turns to give me a cold, callous look. “You are trying my patience, Harry.” He says, dangerously soft. “I believe I gave you an order.”

 

I say nothing to this. He takes my silence as some sort of defiance. “And I will remind you that you are not allowed to disobey me.”

 

I feel rooted to the spot. “… I—

 

His eyes flash; the danger is deceptive, so slight, and yet so volatile. My mouth clamps shut at the look. It’s as if this whole year never happened, and I’m staring at the horrible monster that has ruined my life, and the man that held me in the dark and told me didn’t want to hurt me anymore has faded into an unreachable memory.

 

“I’m ordering you to leave,” he interrupts me. “And I do not want you to return.”

 

I look up at him in horror, uncomprehending, unable to make my thoughts coalesce together into something coherent. This is not how I imagined this would be going, not at all.

 

“Leave, and go to a place where I can’t find you.”

 

I search his face, looking for something, anything, to tell me that this isn’t real. His expression is unreadable; closed off from me. Even the bright gleam of his crimson eyes is unyielding. He’s being completely serious.

 

“But I—“ and still, the words won’t come out. _But I don’t want to leave._

 

As if a part of me recognizes the fallacy in the words.

 

“Why?” I say instead.

 

He spares me an unreadable glance.

 

And then something cold takes its place. “I no longer have need of you.”

 

A stab of hurt catches me by surprise, splintering in my chest in so painful a manner I almost want to look down and see if my ribcage has truly split open. Or maybe that’s just my heart, which would be infinitely worse. It feels so strange to think not even a few weeks ago I was falling asleep in his arms and smiling with him as we explored each others bodies for what felt like the first time… and now it’s come to this. I feel a very small part of me crumple at the cold, callous words—but another part of me is struck by something else. He told me to leave—to leave and go to a place where he cannot find me. I frown thoughtfully… there was something about the way he worded it, as if he wants me to run from him.

 

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that getting upset and angry with him is only going to make this worse.

 

“I don’t think you ever _needed_ me,” I concede, softly, after a moment. My gaze flickers up to his, solemn and bereft of any bravery.

 

“You _wanted_ me,”

 

A pause.

 

“Do you still?”

 

He holds my gaze, expression giving nothing away. He says nothing. The unending silence seems so conclusive, so sudden, a nameless presence everywhere, clotting in the space between us, heavy upon my shoulders. It is almost unbearable.

 

After a moment, I feel a very strange, facsimile smile light my face. I shake my head, folding my arms with a sigh. “I guess it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

 

I turn around, wondering what the hell I’m doing. Am I really going to leave? Just… leave like this? Leave _us_ like this? Do I want this to be our ending? I don’t know—maybe it’s not even my choice to make. I make for the doors; rational thought has left me. Only instinct remains.

 

I tug the necklace out from beneath my shirt. It takes a bit, but then the pendant is swinging in the air before me. I notice with consternation that my fingers are trembling. Am I really going to do this?

 

Then a grip of steel settles on my shoulder, wrenching me back with a punishing grip.

 

“Do you think I want this?” He hisses, so explosively furious it takes me by surprise.

 

I reel back in shock, mouth moving but now words coming out.

 

“T—Then why…” I swallow thickly. “Why are you doing this?”

 

A very peculiar expression takes over his face—thousands of them, more than I’ve ever seen before, flittering past far too quickly for me to catch. There’s anger—oh, a great deal of that, as usual, but there is far more than that too. Concern? Or perhaps… fear? But that can’t be possible.

 

He grips my chin tightly, but it is his gaze that is far more painful.

 

After a long moment he releases me.

 

“I am not doing it voluntarily.” He hisses, slowly.

 

I blink. Thoughts whirl through me; what could have made him do this? I gaze back at him, just as deeply. He’s telling the truth; whatever the reason is, it is wholly against his will. But what could possibly be making him? What could possibly make the dark lord _do_ anything? Someone is making him give me away, clearly. But who could possibly have the kind of power to do that? Regardless of what he thinks of me as a person, I’ll never stop being his horcrux. That alone makes me of infinite value to him.

 

I suck in a breath, suddenly.

 

There is nothing he values more than— his soul. His horcruxes. Dumbledore. The attack, so abrupt and arbitrary. Malfoy had all year to let the Death Eaters in, I know he had to have taken the mark before term, so why had he waited so long? Suddenly it all makes sense. Dumbledore must have gotten his hands on another horcrux, and forced Voldemort’s hand—and ruined _everything_. The precarious balance that had existed previously has been shattered into nothing, taking the validity of the contract along with it.

 

I take a step back, searching him with wide eyes.

 

“Who?” I demand. “Who is it? Who’s making you do this? It’s Dumbledore, isn’t it, that’s why you—

 

“What does it matter?” He cuts me off, viciously. “No one is making me do anything, I do as I please—

 

“Because—because it doesn’t have to be this way!” I interrupt hysterical, backing away.

 

He rounds on me again; something slams right next to my head with a loud, horrible bang. I startle—it is his hand, caging me in against the wall. I hadn’t even realized I’d backed myself into it until he’d successfully caged me in, a look of total fury on his face.

 

I ignore it, and continue. “Who was it?” I ask, in a rush. “It’s—it’s a horcrux, right? It can’t be anything else.” But this is an affirmation, not really a question.

 

The answer is already written on his face.

 

“Who? Dumbledore?” I repeat, frantically. “Is that why you killed him—or, tried to kill him?” Wait, is this why he’s making me leave? Because he tried to kill Dumbledore, and failed? What does this mean?

 

“It doesn’t matter who,” he counters. “That is besides the point.”

 

I blink at him, rapidly. “How is that besides the point?” I return, incredulous.

 

“Because I gave you an order, and you are contractually obligated to follow it.” He replies, coldly.

 

This stops whatever retort I had in response. I swallow with some difficulty, knowing he’s right. Something stiff has crawled into my throat, burning in the back of my nose. I really don’t want to cry right now, but I am terrified enough that it is a real possibility. Terrified and—and I don’t know. Hurt. Confused. I refuse to say heartbroken.

 

I feel… lost. I don’t understand how this could all end up so horribly. Everything actually looked like it was going well, for once in my very short existence.

 

“Right,” I agree, stonily, not meeting his gaze. I take a shaky breath. “I’ll just… leave you to it, then.” I fish out the pendant, holding it between my trembling fingers.

 

I don’t get very far in that though, for he grips my hand with a force that I’m not expecting. With an _expression_ I’m not expecting. His grip on my wrist is hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow, or worse, for he appears to be expending a lot of effort into reigning in his anger.

 

“Don’t make this more difficult than it already is, Harry.” He says, through gritted teeth.

 

I don’t know what that means, but whatever it is it’s far worse than the cold anger. When he’s cruel and indifferent it’s easy to forget that there might actually be a real human being underneath all that psychotic mess. An incredibly fucked up and emotionally stunted human being, but a person nonetheless.

 

“I—I’m not trying to,” I insist, weakly.

 

He takes a breath. “Then… Do as I asked. Leave—to a place I cannot find you. And don’t ever return.”

 

I feel like he took an icepick and lodged it into my heart. No, maybe even that isn’t painful enough to describe what I’m feeling. It feels like he took that icepick and cut me open with it, and then decided to pluck out every part of me, leaving the heart for last so I would still be alive to feel it.

 

I don’t say anything to this. I don’t think I’m capable of it. And yet, he said it again. Telling me to go—to go away from him. To leave and never return. Something about this gives me confidence.

 

“But… why?” My voice breaks, but there is still something imploring to my tone. “Can you just… tell me why? I don’t get it—if Dumbledore’s taken one of your horcruxes, why don’t you just take it back? Can’t we even try?”

 

“Don’t you understand?” He hisses, furious. “What was or was not taken isn’t the point. That I can be blackmailed at all is the issue here. You are a weakness, Harry. And I do not tolerate weakness.”

 

I am trying very hard to remain unaffected by all of this, to keep a rational, level head through it all, but he’s making it very fucking difficult. As it is, it takes most of my energy to stop myself from making a sound; from letting a single tear fall. I wonder if my expression actually moved him somehow, for he makes an irritated noise as he straightens up, looking away as he runs a hand through his hair in a surprisingly human gesture.

 

“But there is more to my decision than that.” He sighs.

 

“You do not belong here, Harry, and you know that as well as I do.” He says, completely blindsiding me.

 

“…What?” I blink, uncomprehending.

 

“You are better off far away from here—from all of this.”

 

“W—what do you mean?” I sputter, still not following. His change from icy fury to wary unease is disorienting. That he can feel unease _at all_ is disorienting. “What do you mean, ‘all of this?’ From you?” I snort. He’s not actually trying to pretend like he has a single altruistic bone in his body, is he?

 

“From everything.” He clarifies. “From here, your school you are so fond of—everything. It was your precious Dumbledore who signed you away in the first place—and the Minister was not all that eager to speak on your behalf, either. This world has no qualms in using you for their own advantage—myself included.”

 

“That’s not—

 

“That’s not what?” He interrupts. “True? You’re not honestly attempting to argue this, are you? I know you’re not that naïve.”

 

I struggle for words. “No, I’m not.” I concede, quietly. “I know you’re right…”

 

“They will use you against me, Harry.” He continues. “In any way possible: they already have.”

 

I look down. “I… I know.” 

 

“And I won’t hesitate to do the same.” He adds, making my blood run cold.

 

I study the marble floor closely, thousands of thoughts ripping past me without enough time for me to catch them. “I know.” I repeat, hollow.

 

I bring my gaze towards him, even if it hurts. “But I don’t want to leave, anyway.” I say, in a small voice.

 

I wonder if, perhaps, what I’m seeing is the faint ghost of a smile. “I know. Which is why I’m not giving you a choice in the matter.”

 

This conversation has completely gotten away from me. My first thought is an irrational irritation; who the hell does he think he is, telling me what to do or how to feel? This is quickly overtaken by the more rational part of my brain, which unhelpfully reminds me that he is perfectly within his rights to do that, considering he contractually owns me. And after that is a wan, foreign sadness: there is so much sorrow, but it is made even more painful by the accompaniment of affection that follows.

 

Because I know why he’s doing this. For himself, of course, but that’s not all. There is a part of him that really is doing it for me. Something resigned and regretful eats away at me. Resigned, because I’ve finally acknowledged that I don’t want to leave him; that what I feel for him is stronger than my own self preservation. And regret, because I know I’ll never get to tell him this.

 

“Tom…”

 

“Go, Harry,” he urges. “Go—before I change my mind.”

 

For a quick, almost insignificant moment I wonder how I could try to make him change his mind, repeal his decision and let me stay; but then it is quickly overtaken by a maelstrom of deep-seated fear, sadness, regret and an overwhelming sense of loss. He’s right, on all accounts. My life has more meaning as a bargaining tool, apparently, and I don’t think any of them are above using me for their own gain. That he acknowledges this at all, though, puts him leagues ahead of the other two. That he is even attempting to save me from this fate… speaks volumes.

 

“Tomorrow,” I find myself saying. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

 

It’s the right thing to do, for both of us. He’s right. But I just—

 

“One more night,” I step closer, reaching up to whisper the words against his lips. “Please—just give me one more night.”

 

His eyes slip shut at that. He doesn’t say anything, but I know I’ve won. And when he closes the infinitesimal gap between us he only confirms it. Completely incapable of saying no when I beg, as usual. The thought makes me feel both fondness and a foreboding sense of fear. This might be the last time this ever happens.

 

I return his touch as if every single one might be the last; this may actually be true. I can’t come to terms with any of this, so instead I allow my mind to stop worrying into hysterics, let myself forget about everything else but this moment.

 

But the task is difficult. There is something far different to this love making; an infinite sorrow.  I don’t want it to end.

 

It is sweet and slow, and all the more awful for it. I don’t want to cry, because crying during sex is so lame, but I’m pretty sure I’m doing it anyway. I hide my face in my neck, as if this could possibly mask them, as if he couldn’t feel them on his skin anyway. I choke back a sob when I realize this will be the last time I ever get to hold him like this; it reminds me of all the time we wasted, all the time we could have had to do this. I’ll never get that back: there won’t be another opportunity.

 

When I lean up to kiss him, he returns it with a fervor as if he’s trying to convince me to stay. Like he doesn’t want me to leave, either. Of course he doesn’t. I’m his. I belong here, and now that I’ve finally gotten around to admitting it I’m being summarily kicked out. Kicked out for my own good, I remind myself.

 

I acknowledge that I’m not making this any easier for him. Not by being super emotional, and definitely not by asking him to let me stay for just a little bit longer. I really don’t want to make this more difficult for us, but it’s really hard to be a mature adult right now, okay. I want to be a child; I want to pout and whine and throw a fucking tantrum right now, but that’s not going to get us anywhere.

 

I don’t do any of that. I don’t really have the energy for it, first off. I feel like I’ve been drained of everything, already hollow and cold and empty, even when he is so deep inside me I can’t tell where I end and he begins, both too lost in each other for endings or beginnings.

 

.

 

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.

 

I leave the portkey necklace on the bedside table. If I kept it, I don’t think I’d be able to resist the temptation. As it is, I’m barely succeeding in resisting the temptation to look back; because I know if I do, I’m never going to leave. I steel my resolve, fists clenched and shaking as I silently move through the pre-dawn glow. I reach the doors, opening them quietly, revealing the hallway on the other side. I take a deep breath.

 

I don’t look back.

 

I don’t look—but it doesn’t help the splintering pain in my chest, or stop the foolish tears that roll down my cheeks.

 

It’s for the best, I remind myself.

 

This is no consolation for my constricting heart, but there is a solemn, sobering acknowledgment that rises within a part of me. The part of me that reminds me how terrible and evil he really is, how dangerous and cruel and sadistic—how cruel and sadistic he’s been to _me_. How terrible they all are, this whole world really, and how he is apparently, irrationally, the only one who recognizes how fucked up they all are. I choke back a sob—of course he would choose now to be a good person. Just when I wish he wouldn’t be. I steel my resolve, refusing to look back, to do anything but keep walking forward.

 

_It’s for the best._

 

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I close my eyes and walk away.

 

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.

 

 

.

 

 

 

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_finis_

_._

 

 

 

 

Four years later, the Minister of Magic receives a letter.

 

It is an address. Beneath is a scrawl he’s never seen before; one that elicits a strange longing within him regardless.

 

 

_Come find me._

 

 

 

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.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT THE END I SWEAR. THERE'S A THIRD PART. I SWEAR. BIG SORRY


	3. never felt real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did promise that wasn't the ending! To be honest, the epilogue was only supposed to be 'one'. But then it made me sad so I had to write 'deux'.

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_one_

_._

 

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Sun-blown glass sparkles in an effervescent light; a gleaming, blinding sunshine. The city itself is barren and cold, held in the advent of a maundering, vacant winter. Metal arms reach into an indistinct sky; patriarchs of the infant world. Towers of steel that loom over the people, walking amongst the feet of giants. One long, vibrant streak of light sears through the space between two buildings, suspended between sun and geography, dousing a small strip of the world in a diffusive glow. A concrete garden sprawls in this small space, lit with opulent sunshine, fountains spraying water in intricate patterns.

 

It is cold, but not quite cold enough to deter the children which dart between the sprinkling water, or the doves, which flock in tides to the shallow pools. They erupt into the sky in white washed patterns as the frolicking children scare them away, only to return moments later. It is not quite cold enough for them, but more than cold enough for their parents, who all linger at a safe distance.

 

It is all so soporific; the droplets in the air, scintillating like diamonds; lashed and insatiable essences in unrefined gold, spilling between the buildings; birds smeared upon the sky as brilliant white lights; the lovely laugh of children, bright in the air.

 

But all of this is insignificant. Ice, dust and light; they are all meaningless in the face of the boy in front of him.

 

His back is turned to him; half of him is doused in gold, the other is held in desolate shadow. There is something so bewitching about his presence, even so far away as it is. He is in his line of sight once again, and that is more than enough to elicit each and every modicum of his attention. It is impossible not to burn this all to memory, the sparkling world behind him lost in his very presence.

 

Lord Voldemort does not know why the boy chose here, of all places. It is certainly of no significance to him; to either of them. He does not stray into London often, if ever, and it is all unfamiliar to him. The tides of people out in the distance, ebbing and flowing with the changing street lights, the grandiloquent buildings bracketing them in, the sights and sounds of the city; they are all foreign to him, meaningless. Why here? The mistral wind changes direction; water shimmers into the air, and the figure dripping in sunlight turns ever so slightly. He feels a flicker of apprehension. Will he turn around?

 

His fears are unfounded. The boy’s attention is intimately fixated upon something else, a quiet smile playing on his lips. The boy does not turn around. And so the dark lord again fades back into the indeterminable atmosphere, a vaporous presence removed from the scene. He would like nothing more than to cross the channel of water and light, but it is as if an infinite space has strewn itself between them, one he does not know how to cross.

 

Through his shroud of invisibility he can witness the mercurial tilt of the boy’s lips; he and another spectator of this strange spectacle converse quietly, but their attention does not leave the fountains. Above him the canopy of trees shift, draping patterns in the sun. In the intermittent sunlight he sees Harry, startled into laughter. A bitter wind cuts through the line of trees; the leaves shift, the laughter is gone.

 

And so the dark lord waits, here in his own, lonesome dynasty, transfixed upon the scene but unwilling to move. It feels as if he has been spelled to the spot, as thoughts war within him. What would he say, even? How could he possibly approach him?

 

Harry’s eyes dart away then, inspecting the world around them with a narrowed, searching visage. He makes a swoop of the perimeter, something indeterminable in his expression. The boy hesitates for a moment, before he turns away once more.

 

Lord Voldemort stands beneath the eaves for some time, simply watching. Yet, as he lingers there he realizes how pointless it is. He will not cross the unending space between them.

 

It is useless.

 

He sinks back into the shadows, intent on leaving and never returning.

 

But then he is frozen in his place.

 

His breath catches: a little boy darts out from the water and sunlight. Harry kneels as he approaches, a soft, sweet smile upon his face. The boy nears, and in the opulent light he can see all the child’s borrowed features. The windswept, tousled hair, lighter than he would have imagined it to be; his nose, his mouth, his _smile_. They do not belong to this little boy—they belong to _him_.  They are his own. Everything but the eyes, which glow virescent and luminous.

 

Harry’s smile grows smaller, but no less significant. He fixes the knit hat upon the boy’s head with dexterous affection. The little boy peers up at him with his big, familiar eyes, looking perhaps a bit tearful.

 

“What’s wrong?” Harry murmurs, the words almost too quiet to hear above the wind and sound, hands trailing down to catch smaller ones, adjusting the gloves that have been dislodged with play and gambol.

 

“Mum,” he sniffles. “I’m wet!”

 

“Of course you’re wet, silly,” replies Harry, amused. “That’s what happens when you play in the water.”

 

The child pouts, insensibly saddened. “But it’s cold.”

 

Harry laughs, and surreptitiously waves his wand. “Better?”

 

The water evaporates, leaving nothing in its wake but the little boy’s happy smile. Harry leans close then, whispering something into his ear. Something lights in those stolen green eyes, and then, with a light push from Harry he is bounding away, jumping about at full voltage, back towards the splendid light. Harry stands, watching him go with a lacinated sorrow.

 

The dark lord is utterly incapable of acknowledging his existence. What his existence _means._

 

He knows very intimately that there is only one way that child could have been created at all. Merlin knows he attempted it enough times to become very familiar with the whole procedure—what it would take to conceive him, and perhaps more importantly, the one essential piece he was missing. Love. It had burned within him for some time, stirring up and overwhelming anger so potent he was almost surprised by it; that revolting, disgusting emotion, once more hindering his plans. Forever destroying his machinations. An ancient, powerful magic—Dumbledore’s greatest weapon, and one he has faced the brunt of before. He was not so stupid as to make the same mistake twice, it is far wiser to avoid it in its entirely, he’d always thought.

 

Nothing good could ever come from it.

 

He was wrong.

 

He follows Harry’s gaze. The little boy wanders in and out of the glissading sun, glittering droplets in his hair, on his nose, but even they are insubstantial in the face of his alarming, viridian eyes. Even from this far away he can see their brilliant coloring, a deadly emerald; deadly, but very familiar. He has seen it many times, in the boy in front of him, in the glowing tip of his own wand. In the afternoon haze his curls are caught in a glowing light; in this moment the similarities between him and this child are striking. They are almost entirely alike, aside from one crucial element—the efflorescent smile tossed upon his face, the delight in his eyes; these are all things that Lord Voldemort has never known. He is not sure how he could have possibly been a part of his creation; he is far too perfect to have come from him.

 

The thought of Harry carrying his child had always elicited a dark hunger within him. He could almost taste his satisfaction at the mere thought of it; how gratifying it would be to see the round swell of his stomach, knowing that he did that to him. A claim on that body no one else would ever have—it was fair to say he thought on the idea a lot. Derived great pleasure from it, even. But never once had it dawned on him what would inevitably come after.

 

After an eternity or two swings by, the child grows tired of all the running and playing, returning to the arms of his mother. Harry grabs him as he leaps, swinging him up into the air and onto his hip. Almost immediately does the little boy tuck himself into the crook of Harry’s neck, looking for all intent purposes as if he has instantly fallen asleep.

 

Harry shifts him slightly, as he turns again to speak to his fellow spectator. After a beat, he says his farewells, waving as he turns. He pauses for a moment, as his eyes search the city beyond, the throngs of people out in the distance, the cars as they pass by.

 

Whatever he is looking for he doesn’t find.

 

As he sits and watches in his obscurity, it comes to him that the boy is leaving. He wanders into the light, the child a dozing form resting upon his shoulder.

 

Harry is leaving. 

 

There is a moment, where perhaps he would have emerged from the shadows, and caught the boy by the hand. But it drifts away as quickly as it had come.

 

He lets him go.

 

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_deux_

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Hermione Granger blinks back into awareness with a sudden jolt. She looks around wildly. It is far later than she remembered it being—where does all the time go? She always seems to lose it, somehow. She had been dozing all over her papers, none of which are even close to getting finished.

 

She sighs. But then, perhaps that was a foregone conclusion.

 

The young woman stands then, stretching out her arms as she looks about the office. Completely and utterly silent. Even the house elves aren’t here, spelling away all the trash from the workday. That might be because today is not a work day.

 

Today is a holiday.

 

But things like that rarely stop Hermione from working, especially on more pressing matters that collect her full attention. Ron has told her time and again that she works far too much, that she needs to remember everything outside of the office—and for once in his life, he is right. It is so very difficult for her… even today, a day when she doubts a single soul is even in this office she is hunched over her desk, whittling away.

 

The place is entirely devoid of life, and most likely will continue to be for the rest of the week and then some. Most people don’t mosey back into work until after Boxing Day, and even then there is always a week of complete unproductivity just after the holidays.

 

Hermione grumbles, rubbing blearily at her eyes as she tucks all her paperwork back into her back, before slinging it over her shoulder. She checks her desk one more time, before she heads for the exit.

 

It’s not as if she doesn’t have plans; she always does. She has the Weasley’s, or the Tonks’, and of course her own family—and, she has Harry.

 

She pauses abruptly before the elevators, a sudden thought occurring to her. She stands there for some time, gnawing at her bottom lip, debating with herself. After great length, a look of determination crosses her features and she pivots smartly on one foot, heading in the opposite direction.

 

The hallways are silent and, if she’s being honest, a bit scary. There is an odd noise here and there, a flickering lamp or candlelight, and not a soul in sight. It’s not just her department—it’s the whole building. Absolutely no one is here.

 

Well, that is not entirely true.

 

There is definitely at least one other, working away through the festivities.

 

The doors are grand and imposing, and tightly closed shut. She can see a small glow of light from the crack beneath, but otherwise there is no sign of life, no movement, no sound, no rustling of papers. She takes a deep breath, holding it until she’s practically red in the face, attempting to make herself knock on the door. It seems even her Gryffindor courage has deserted her in the face of such an alarming prospect. She steels herself regardless, raises a cautious hand to the wood and—

 

“Well don’t just stand out there,” comes an impatient voice from inside.

 

Hermione isn’t sure if this is relief she’s feeling or pure and utter terror.

 

She opens it slightly, peering in.

 

The Minister of Magic is scrawling away, quill in hand, a truly laudable amount of paperwork in front of him. How he manages to get everything done with perfect punctuality, she has no idea. Well, actually she does. It happens to her, too. Whenever her personal life is a mess, her work life becomes brutally efficient.

 

“Uh, good evening, my Lord.” She stutters out, very eloquently.

 

He raises a lone brow, attention still fixed on his work. “Miss Granger,” he intones. “Did you need something?”

 

“Oh—um—no…” Hermione trails off, suddenly unable to get her tongue to untwist itself from the elaborate knot its made in her mouth.

 

He spares her an appraising look at this. It is quite terrifying: she would prefer him to continue to focus on the parchment, and not on her. “It’s very late,” he observes at length. “Not to mention a Ministry holiday. Shouldn’t you be out enjoying the festivities?”

 

“Well yes, I suppose,” she returns, fidgeting but refusing to let any of this deter her. “But I normally  don’t do very much for Christmas Eve though, most of that is tomorrow… the Weasley’s are big on Christmas morning, although I suppose Percy may have mentioned that to you…” She’s rambling, she notices with dismay.

 

“Ah yes, the Weasley’s.” He returns, and beneath the acidulous scorn he sounds almost… amused? “I am sure it must be quite the… crowded event. Might I suggest arriving early? You may not be able to fit otherwise.”

 

She blinks, taken aback. He really does know a lot about the Weasley’s Christmas traditions. She’s no idea what sort of amicably antagonistic—but still somehow professional—relationship exists between the Dark Lord and his chronically punctual PA, Percy Weasley, but it is completely beyond her.

 

“That is very true,” she agrees, with a small smile. “It would definitely be in my best interests to get there before all the beds are taken and I have to find somewhere on the floor—but, as it turns out, I’m not going to the Weasley’s tonight.”

 

“Is that so?” He appears to be asking for the sake of polite conversation rather than any genuine desire to know, but she soldiers on anyway.

 

“Yes,” she replies, nervously.

 

And then, after a breath; “I’m going to Harry’s.”

 

His quill slips from his hand for a brief, almost unnoticeable second.

 

It is actually rather fascinating. Hermione watches his flickering expression with no small amount of wonder. There is so much emotion to see there, before it settles back into its usual diplomatic indifference. She has worked at the Ministry for some time now, and has never, not once, seen Lord Voldemort lose his composure in any sense of the word. He is always so skillfully crafted in his state of repose. Even when he is angry, it is clear to see he is in complete control of all his facilities. It’s the first time she’s seen any indication that there is something beneath that veneer.

 

He doesn’t even have a disinterested or dismissive quip in response. How very curious that it only takes the mere mention of Harry to elicit such a radical change in him. How very curious that it is Harry, and Harry alone, that can.

 

“And I just…” She fixes a desperately uncomfortable look to the floor. “I just—well, I wanted to invite you.”

 

This as well seems to fracture his equanimity, but although there is a genuine emotion drifting over his features, it is nothing she can comprehend.

 

It comes to her that this is a very silly and impossible idea. The Dark Lord no doubt has at least a half dozen balls, galas, and events inciting his attendance; he is Lord Voldemort after all, there are probably a thousand more pertinent things he should be doing right now.

 

She sighs; “Although I suppose you must have quite a number of more pressing engagements that require your attention…”

 

He still doesn’t seem completely realigned, taking a long moment to reply.

 

“Indeed I do,” he agrees, to her disappointment.

 

But then he gestures to his desk. “And I am ignoring each and every one of them at the moment.”

 

She looks up at that, taken by surprise.

 

“Another hour or two won’t make much difference,” he remarks as he stands, in a tone that doesn’t quite reach indifference.

 

He hesitates for a moment, and then everything in his features grows unreadable once more. “Lead the way then, Miss Granger.”

 

Maybe she shouldn’t be doing this. He and Harry, and whatever tragic history they have, are all in the past. Maybe it’s better to just let sleeping dogs lie. They must have broken it off for a reason—and broken it off so _conclusively_ , at that. Not that she knew very much about them in the first place—surely more than anyone else in the world, but that wasn’t all that grand an achievement. All she knew was that one day Harry up and left the wizarding world and never looked back. There was a long period of time where he didn’t even have contact with her or Ron—it was only recently that he had started coming around again, and still he is very keen to stay away from matters about the magical world. She doesn’t think they’ve seen each other in… years. Since a time far before his reign as Minister. She doesn’t even know if Harry’s aware he’s the Minister of Magic, and that is a hard fact to miss, what with the swift, hostile, and very publicized takeover that made it possible in the first place. It must be a very good reason indeed.

 

But, well, they’ve both changed.

 

The Dark Lord especially. She doesn’t know if he’s changed _enough,_ but the difference is clear to see.

 

It takes only a second before they have apparated in front of a very familiar door. Apartment 25B, it reads upon a glimmering, stainless steel plaque. The door itself is very imposing and intimidating, but she can see all the little cracks in its formidable armor. A little knick at knee height, from Flynn she thinks; a crayon mark that is most definitely from him; a chip when Harry had attempted to fit furniture through it.

 

Well, she thinks, here goes nothing.

 

And she knocks on the door.

 

There is a moment of silence, before she hears a _thump_ , followed by a delightful little shriek of laughter.

 

Harry opens the door wearing a heinous lopsided Santa hat half falling off his head, dark tousled curls a fetching mess beneath. At least he had foregone the ugly Christmas Sweater competition the Weasley’s were having—she couldn’t imagine this moment if he had one of those horrendous things on. Fortunately he looks as he always does; tragically fashionable.

 

His smile is bright and brilliant—totally lethal at point blank range, he really out to remember that—the excitement and happiness in his eyes is more than enough to make her feel guilty for what’s about to come.

 

“Hermione you’re—

 

He cuts off, eyes growing very wide. Hermione had expected this, but nothing could have prepared her for the horrible, horrible silence that followed. She searches Harry’s face worriedly, but all she can see is surprise.

 

“Late.” He finishes, after a very long time.

 

She darts forward, placing a kiss on his cheek and hugging him tightly. “Yes sorry, got held up with work—Happy Christmas, Harry!” She greets, before she is tactfully moving away, “I’m just going to put this under the tree, okay?”

 

She is obviously giving them some time alone. Well, she did what she could. She supposes it is in the Dark Lord’s hands, now. She shakes away her concern at the sight of her wonderful little gremlin.

 

“Flynn!” She cries with delight. “Happy Christmas!”

 

His gaze flickers towards the hall, to where a litany of merry laughter ensues. But his attention wavers for only a brief moment; then all of it is, once more, focused entirely on the boy in front of him. He appears to have not aged at all, as if held in some kind of timeless juvenescence. It is impossible not to fixate on those wide, beautiful eyes; the fallow curls, a hazardous mess whisked beneath his hat; the small, significant scar that doesn’t quite manage to hide beneath the fringe of his hair. Perfection lives in the lining of his skin.

 

He leans against the door, peering up at him. There is not a person on this earth he cannot read; he is not considered the best legilimens of all time for nothing. He can manipulate others into doing what he wants; make them follow his ideals and make it seem as if they had come up with it themselves; make them follow him blindly, make them willingly and unknowingly toss away their freedom. As Minister it seems to be all he ever needs to do—most of the time he doesn’t need to expend all that much effort, either.

 

But Harry is, as always, the indomitable exception. What is it about this slip of a boy that makes all his carefully crafted manipulations entirely meaningless?

 

He has never needed to know what someone was thinking; it is always painfully obvious. Except with Harry.

 

Even now, he cannot read what he sees wandering across the boy’s features. It is not something he can understand—but then, it has always been something he couldn’t understand. Where all humans are predictable, reasonable, and sensible, Harry is utterly unpredictable, unequivocally unreasonable, and nothing he does ever seems to make an ounce of sense. If he had any sense of self-preservation or even a bit of reason and sensibility, he would have taken his first opportunity to get away from him, and stayed away until the end of time. He wouldn’t have remained. And he wouldn’t be standing in front of him now.

 

He has always been exceedingly difficult to understand, to manipulate, to bend to his will. Lord Voldemort is not a man accustomed to being denied what he wants: to this day, Harry has managed to elicit both his total satisfaction and his uncontrollable anger—worse still, it’s not as if the boy needed to do much to achieve either. For all intent purposes, he doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’s doing at all. This only serves to irritate him more.

 

“Tom,” he says, and though his eyes are bright with some kind of emotion he is unable to tell what it is.

 

He has no words for him; he never seems to have any when those brilliant eyes turn towards him.

 

There is more laughter from down the hall, the delighted shriek of a child, little feet running about the carpet. He swallows, unable to pull his gaze away from the boy in front of him.

 

“I found you.” He says, quiet and unsteady.

 

This brings forth a brilliant smile. “Yeah,” Harry agrees, softly. “You did.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Flynn is a lovely, agreeable little child. He hates children, but he supposes he can make an exception for his own. The boy makes it easy; he is happy cheerful and unobtrusive, and it is almost impossible to dislike him. He has his face, his hair, his nose, his smile—all of which compliment his bright green eyes. It is so strange to see both their features—his and Harry’s—combined so perfectly, as if they were always meant to be together.

 

He really likes cats—although really only Krookshanks, Hermione’s old and mean-spirited kneazle. But he has a snake named Apples— named such for reasons currently unexplained—who is fat and lazy and hiding under the Christmas tree. He has no compunctions at all in crawling up into his lap, more than excited to enlighten him on whatever question strikes his fancy.

 

The child beams up at him with such unguarded innocence and excitement, as if he is something new and shiny to explore. He supposes that is exactly what he is; this child knows nothing about him, except for the fact that they have never met and he is willing to indulge him in conversation.

 

He likes books ( _big surprise_ ) and flying ( _also unsurprising_ ), frogs and the color orange, and dragons and stars—and star ships. He really likes star ships. One in particular named the Milennium Falcon, and something about a boy named Luke Skywalker. He likes them very much, because he continues to babble on about them and space and something about a Death Star for a full ten minutes, as if he has absolutely no necessity for oxygen.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry breaks in then, interrupting Flynn in his diatribe to some space princess, smiling as he leans over the back of the couch to tousle the boy’s hair. “It’s all he ever wants to talk about. He just watched the movie…”

 

And then, to Flynn, “Don’t you want to talk about something _else_ besides Star Wars?”

 

“ _No_.” Flynn replies, look scandalized at the very thought.

 

Harry ducks close, so close he can feel his warmth from behind him. “But he doesn’t know anything about Star Wars.” Harry reveals. “So that’s not very nice.”

 

This only makes the boy even more horrified. He turns big, stricken green eyes back to him. “You don’t know anything about Star Wars?” He whispers, looking utterly betrayed.

 

Voldemort does not know what to say. He simply looks at the boy with surprise and trepidation—he won’t cry, will he? Fortunately, Harry is not nearly as tongue-tied, or unused to the mercurial whims of small children. “Not everyone knows, Flynn.” Harry reminds.

 

“Oh.” He looks unreasonably sad over this. But then he brightens immediately. “That’s okay—I can tell you!”

 

And then he is crawling his way out of his lap and leaping towards the floor, bouncing around the couch and down the hall. Harry watches him go with a look of great exasperation, before he returns his attention to him. “I’m sorry about this,” Harry apologizes again, running a wary hand through his hair. As if he needs to apologize for anything. “He’s not normally so… outgoing.”

 

There is a moment where he peers up at the boy above him, studying him closely as he keeps his gaze towards the hallway. “He likes you.” Harry adds quietly and, at great length.

 

Something uncomfortable grows within him at this. He doesn’t quite know how to feel about that.

 

Harry shakes his head, as if dusting off his thoughts. “You don’t have to indulge him, you know. He’s really quite a handful—and honestly he should probably be getting to bed—

 

“No.” He finds himself interrupting, before he can even process rational thought.

 

Harry turns to him, looking completely and irrevocably surprised. As if he would have expected the opposite from him. For some reason Harry’s expression only steels his determination.

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“Oh.” Harry says, blinking. “Well… alright.”

 

But the little boy is darting back towards them, looking so happy and excited for _him_ that he’s taken aback by it. No one every looks at him that way—as if they simply cannot wait to see him, as if his very presence evokes some sort of unadulterated affection. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.” Harry excuses himself, and Voldemort does not think he imagined the tiny bit of hesitation in the remark, the wariness beneath the words. But he is also sure he didn’t imagine the small lick of fond amusement. With that he leaves them, returning to the kitchen where he and Hermione are attempting some sort of crime upon the art of baking.

 

Flynn scampers over to him and wriggles his way back into his lap, as if this is a perfectly acceptable thing to do, and it is not at all remiss to see him there. Like he belongs there. He knows it is just the impetuousness and lack of personal boundaries found in all small children, but it is—warming, nonetheless. He is holding a big and brightly colored book. Big as in size, not in length. He’s never seen a book so… wide. But then, he’s never been all that acquainted with children’s picture books.

 

This one is full of stars and planets and weird looking flying ships—and weirder looking creatures.

 

Flynn wastes no time in opening it and reading him an entire thirty-page synopsis of what constitutes as some sort of hostile government takeover. He finds himself impressed with how much dexterity the boy has over his words; he cannot be very old, and yet he only struggles with a few words that Voldemort has to gently correct him on—and they are all far too elaborate for a children’s book, anyway.

 

The story, as revealed to him in the voice of this little child—is about a boy named Luke Skywalker, who lives on a farm but then ends up in space somehow, and then saves the galaxy from the evil emperor and his deputy of evil, Darth Vader, Dark Lord ( _Dark Lord?)_ of the Sith. Luke is blonde and bubbly and incredibly naïve; innocent, and far too accepting of everything and everyone. This is all stripped from him when he confronts the evil Dark Lord of the Sith, who promptly cuts off his hand ( _this is a children’s book?)_ and reveals that he is Luke’s father. Luke is predictably distraught to find that the father he’s always wanted was a hideous monster and mass murderer.

 

The irony of all of this is not lost upon him.

 

Just as Luke and his mismatched team of friends are about to save the galaxy, Flynn’s excited voice begins to lose steam, growing slower and slower as the boy leans heavily against his chest. When he stops entirely Voldemort looks down to find him fast asleep, just a mop of tousled cinnamon hair, tucked underneath his chin, probably lost in dreams of stars and flying ships.

 

It astonishes him how—normal, the boy is. He is not sure what he was expecting; someone quiet and cold, much like himself? He never knew Harry as a child, but he can imagine him to be just as quiet: just as lonely. It is probably for the best that Flynn is neither.

 

He doesn’t realize how deeply he’s been staring until one of his hands draws to brush away the curls from his eyes. The boy makes an unintelligible noise, nestling closer.

 

Without the unending story of a galactic government takeover and possible genocide to distract him, the house grows oddly quiet. His attention is distracted from the sleeping child, to the kitchen where his mother is causing a fire hazard.

 

“Oh—Merlin, I’m going to be late,” Hermione cries, frantic. “Red or white?”

 

“You hate white wine,” he hears Harry point out blandly in response.

 

“Yes, but Carter prefers it to red—hell, do you mind giving me a hand with these?”

 

From the sound of it, whatever they are attempting in there is clearly a logistical struggle.

 

“Fine yes, you’re right of course, I’ll end the night in front of the toilet if I bring the pinot grigio, but if not wine, what else am I supposed to bring?”

 

“Isn’t that obvious?” Is Harry’s dry response. He’s opening something—a cupboard, perhaps.

 

“Harry you’re a genius!” Hermione gasps. “Champagne—oh, that’s perfect.”

 

“No, that’s generic.” Harry corrects, laughing. “And that’s my favorite bottle, you better put it to good use.”

 

“Scouts honor!” Hermione swears, and then she is bursting out of the kitchen, carrying a couple gift bags, a present, all while balancing a tray of… something.

 

She looks around for a moment, before she finally spies Flynn, fast asleep. She fights off a smile. “I was going to say goodbye, but, well, I suppose I’ll see him tomorrow anyway,” she laughs softly. And then, with a hasty bow, “Happy Christmas, my Lord!”

 

And then she is out the door, cursing about the time once again. For someone as organized and put together as Miss Granger she is surprisingly unpunctual.

 

Harry exits after, shaking his head fondly as he scrapes off some unidentified, inedible substance off a plate, before he thinks better of it and tosses the whole thing in the trash.

 

His expression clears when he catches sight of him. As always, it is something he cannot read. But when he nears, and catches sight of Flynn, fast asleep upon him, it drifts into something he can understand, even if it is a look that has never been directed towards him before. Love.

 

“He fell asleep, huh?” He whispers fondly, walking around the couch.

 

He leans down, snaking his arms around the little boy and lifting him up off his lap. The firelight dances across his face, draping his features in gold and shadow. He feels strangely cold with the loss of the bundle of warmth. Flynn stirs, burrowing into Harry’s arms with an unhappy whine.

 

Harry turns to the Christmas tree then, with an exasperated look. “ _Hurry up, you lazy reptile_ ,” he demands, caustically. “ _Or I’m going to leave you out here in the cold_.”

 

There is a long, suffering grumble from the tree. “ _Leave me then_.” Is the petulant response. Flynn was not exaggerating; the snake really is quite lazy.

 

Harry rolls his eyes with a scoff, but makes good on his word. The dark lord is not an indecisive man, but he finds himself hesitating regardless. He’s never felt so uncertain; is he supposed to follow? Or would Harry have told him if he was?

 

Fortunately his decision is made for him before he can truly work himself into hysteria. Harry pauses at the threshold of the hallway, cursing quietly. “Sorry,” he spins around, abruptly, as if he’s forgotten something. “But could you look to see if there’s a toy over there?”

 

He looks around, finally finding the thing by his foot. It’s a little stuffed teddy bear that the boy must have dropped somewhere in the interim of his excitement over Voldemort and his excitement over outer space.

 

“That’s the one.” Harry breathes out a sigh of relief. “Do you mind bringing it?”

 

He follows Harry into the darkened hallway, nothing but the quiet sounds of the sleeping child in Harry’s arms as accompaniment. Harry leads him to a door, pushing it open gently to reveal a chaotic mess. He spells the lights on, set to a low dim, and Voldemort sees that the room is, predictably, full of stars and galaxies all over the walls. The bear in his hands appears to have a large extended family; they are all lined up in one corner, in a large variety of sizes. Some have closer resemblance to bigfoot than they do teddy bears, given the enormity of them.

 

He turns curious eyes towards the room as Harry puts the boy to bed. Elaborate starships chase themselves about the ceiling; a mobile of spinning planets and moons rotates slowly over the child’s bed. There is a bedside table, lined with photos. A shot of Harry with a very young Flynn in his lap, reading through a picture book; a more recent photo of the boy, looking up with wide, wondrous eyes as he learns how to skate, Harry laughing delightedly as he holds the boy steady by the arms; the two of them covered in flour, giggling as they cut-out cookie shapes. In the next he is very small, not much older than an infant, smiling and babbling and waving at the camera.

 

There are many more scattered about the walls, most conspicuously filled with familiar looking redheads, but they do not hold his attention the way the ones on the desk do. They are all infinitesimal moments in time; moments he will never get to see, that he will never get back. Something very strange washes over him at the sight of them.

 

Harry murmurs something to the boy, before he is straightening up. He turns around, holding out a hand. It takes him a moment to realize what he’s after, and he hands the bear over.

 

“Where’s Turtle?” Flynn mumbles, sleepy but unsettled.

 

“He’s right here.” Harry replies, tucking the bear in the nest of blankets, right beside the boy. He is starting to notice that the young child has a penchant for choosing names that are incredibly misleading. Harry leans in then, placing a soft, sweet kiss into the boy’s hair; he finds something about the scene too much for him, and he has to look away.

 

Harry shuffles them both out at that, but not without leaving a little light on before he closes the door; two gleaming suns, one a bit bigger than the other, orbiting around each other on the mobile. Around them, their own solar system of hand-crafted planets rotate at a rather lopsided angle.

 

There is a long moment where he has so many things he wants to say that none of them actually make it out into the open. He simply glares down at the boy, as if expecting the boy to know what he’s thinking without actually voicing it aloud. A flush grows on Harry’s cheeks and he remembers then that Harry hates it when he does this; observes him without remark. He said it made him uncomfortable

 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Is what comes out, after an eternity or two has come and gone, and the two of them are still here, in the darkened hallway.

 

Harry glowers at him. “I wrote you, didn’t I?” He replies, sourly.

 

This is true. It also only serves to make him irritable—if only because the boy is right. He did make an attempt; it was Voldemort who ruined it. “Because you were so forthcoming in your explanation.” He returns, acerbic.

 

For a moment, he thinks the boy might argue with him. But instead he simply takes a deep breath, returning to full composure in the space of a moment. “I’m making tea,” he says, after a few seconds. “Do you want any?”

 

No, he doesn’t want tea, dammit He wants answers. But one will lead to the other, if only he has the patience for it, so he simply nods stiffly.

 

Harry leads them back into the kitchen, overcast in twinkling lights from the Christmas tree in the corner. It is the only source of light in the dim house, and stands out all the more for it. His eyes are drawn to it, almost unwillingly; the amount of presents stuffed into the small space beneath the eaves is bewildering. It makes something quiet and saturnine settle in him; something a lot like regret. This child is clearly well taken care of. He has a large extended family of insufferable redheads who most likely dote on him and spoil him rotten. He has Harry, perhaps the most wonderful parent in the world—and an irate and slothful reptile and a rude and uncharitable half-kneazle to keep him company when Harry is not around. He has a tree stuffed with presents that all have his name on it. A room of his own, with stars and starships and distant galaxies; not a cupboard under the stairs, or a small bed squeezed into a cold and overflowing orphanage.

 

He is stirred from the gloom of his thoughts when Harry sets a cup in front of him. Right. Tea. It seems so absurd to be sitting here, across from a boy he hasn’t seen in half a decade, taking tea at such an odd hour.

 

“Happy Christmas, by the way,” Harry remarks, offhandedly.

 

Voldemort snorts in response. He is not a fan of holidays—this one in particular. And Harry is well aware.

 

“I heard your Minister now,” he continues. “Congratulations.”

 

This only makes it all worse. The wan spill of light casts the room into something unrecognizable: Harry is unrecognizable, lit in geometric planes of light and shadow, holding his gaze with that look of indifference. Vacuous and empty. He doesn’t want to be here, making small talk. He doesn’t know what he wants, actually, but it’s not this. The distance feels endless, even though Harry is so close he could reach out and touch him.

 

Harry seems to come to the same conclusion as him—that any attempt at polite conversation is futile and uncomfortable—and sighs. “Well, you must have questions,” he starts, defeated. “Ask away.”

 

There are a lot of things he could do with an open invitation like that. They all clamor to the forefront of his thoughts, trying to fight their way out of his mind simultaneously and only serving to make it all the worse. 

 

“How old?” He finds himself asking, once his thoughts finally manage to order themselves into something coherent .

 

“He’ll be five in March.” That makes—perfect sense, actually. The timing of it… there is no other logical time he could have been conceived aside from their… last encounter. Chronologically it makes perfect sense; in everything else he is at a total loss.

 

“How?” He swallows thickly. But this is an unnecessary question: they both know how it happened. There is only one way for it to have happened. So perhaps the better question is; “When did you…” but it is impossible to even think it, let alone formulate the words.

 

Harry must take some small modicum of pity on him. He smiles, but it is small and sad. “When did I know I loved you?” He has never heard anything so disconsolate as this.

 

It is as if something terrible has squeezed his heart.

 

Harry looks away then, nebulous expression still settled deeply into his eyes.  “I don’t know.” He says, at length.

 

After a long silence, he gathers his thoughts enough for him to ask, “Why?” It is very difficult to swallow.

 

This startles a strangled laugh out of the boy. “ _Why_?” He echoes, with empty mirth. “You mean, why would I—“

 

 He cuts himself off, as if a thought has occurred to him, like something has clicked in his head.

 

“It doesn’t really work like that.” He says, after a long moment. But this is not an answer; perhaps it would have been, for someone who was not him. But this emotion is so foreign and alien, he doesn’t think even a textbook definition would be enough for him to understand. He will never know this feeling.

 

He will never understand.

 

“Well I wouldn’t really know how it works, would I?” he returns, inscrutable.

 

The look in those green eyes as they flitter up to him is pained and conflicted. “I guess not.” He agrees, smiling sadly.

 

He shakes his head. “It’s not… I don’t know. It’s not something that can be explained away—it’s not something that makes sense.”

 

Yes, he commiserates silently. He had already worked out that much on his own. He had realized long ago that he would never be able to comprehend something so irrational and unreasonable as love. He had never wanted to.

 

Harry idly stirs his spoon in the murky liquid. He notices belatedly that neither of them have touched their tea.

 

“Do you still?”

 

He doesn’t know what compels him to ask, nor does he know what compels Harry to answer this honestly. “Maybe,” he decides, after a long period of deliberation. “I still hate you,” he says, thoughtful. “I don’t think I ever stopped. In some ways, I’m still scared, and I’m still angry. Maybe that’s just how it works, though.”

 

“If this is your attempt at a coherent explanation, it is severely lacking.” He points out, caustic if only because this subject makes him want to simultaneously curse something and crawl out of his own skin.

 

He’s not sure what he is expecting from this; a wan, pitying smile, perhaps. But something lights in his eyes, something he hasn’t seen in many years. It is a look he has only seen a handful of times, always just briefly, before impassivity shuddered his expression into emptiness once again. A spark of anger, fire, passion.

 

“I’m sorry, did you want me to count all the reasons why?” Harry replies, sarcastic. “I guess it’s just because you’re such a kind and thoughtful person. You have such a great sense of humor, you know, and you’re such a compassionate and charitable human being. Or maybe it’s because of your fantastic sense of superiority over everyone else and totally maniacal plot for world domination? I don’t really know; they’re all such endearing personal characteristics.”

 

He has no response to this. He simply sits there in silence, wondering how many times Harry had such a lovely, impassioned response like this, and how many times he kept it locked away in places he couldn’t reach. The boy is, in essence, insulting him, but it’s hard to care about that when there is such a delightful, ensnaring fire in his eyes. 

 

The boy blinks, as if he hadn’t realized he said that aloud. “Well anyway,” he starts anew after a beat, shrugging. “My point is that I have a lot of reasons to hate you, and not very many to love you—or any, actually. So I can’t really tell you why.”

 

“I see.” He has nothing else to say.

 

The boy is correct—by all accounts, he should hate him, he should have made for the opposite side of the planet, or at the very least made a murder attempt. But he didn’t do any of that. He should have walked away without looking back, should have walked away forever; he should have taken the other contract. He should have… the Dark Lord swallows, something unfamiliar and cold caught in his throat—he should have never had that child. He should have drowned it at birth, or given it away, or killed it the moment he found out. That lovely little child sleeping down the hall shouldn’t exist.

 

Harry sighs then. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

 

Again, he is stuck speechless. The admission is… unexpected, but not unwelcome. 

 

“I think I envy you a bit, you know,” Harry confesses, and he is blindsided by the admission. “I wish I didn’t understand it; I wish I never knew what it felt like. I have a feeling my life would be a lot happier and easier… that I’d be better of not being able to feel anything at all.”

 

But the idea of a world without the brightly burning presence of this boy, of a reality in which Harry truly is vacant of thought, opinion, and feeling—a reality where he truly had managed to break the boy… it is deeply disturbing. The boy is wrong. It would not be a happy and easy life. It wouldn’t be a life at all.

 

Something chimes in the thin air—a clock, he realizes, belatedly. A church bell tower out in the distance, marking the passing of the night. Whatever moment exists between them shatters into the ether, and Harry shakes his head as if to clear the crumbling universe out of his eyes, turning to the digital numbers on the stovetop.

 

“It’s really late,” he notes, belated and perhaps a bit nervously.

 

That sounds about as much of a dismissal as any. He stands abruptly, simply observing the boy across him. Harry is not looking at him, studiously fixing his gaze somewhere out in the distance. “Yes it is,” he agrees, after some time. No doubt he’s missed every appointment he had for the evening; then again, he is the Dark Lord, and the Minister of Magic. If he decides not to attend something, no one will call him out on it.

 

There is a long, horrendous moment of silence, so endless it is painful. But just before it gets unbearable, Harry peers up at him, and whispers, unsteady; “You can stay, if you want.”

 

It catches him in conclusive surprise. He studies the boy; biting his lip nervously, a lovely color to his cheeks. It is an appetizing sight. But it is not his beauty that captivates him so, and it is not his desire that has him rooted to the spot; rather, it is the quiet, hesitant look, and the wavering thread of hope in his words. 

 

He stays.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

It has been a very long time since he has been so close to Harry—to see the slender form and margins, lined in moon spill, a tiny infinity. To be so close to him that he can feel the muted warmth of his skin, as always, eliciting his full attention. Harry does not need to do much to accomplish that, though. Sometimes he doesn’t even have to be in the same room, yet he finds his thoughts rotating around the boy anyway; he glides into his darker musings with a cold indifference, appearing for a moment before disappearing just as silently, into nothing but a vague sense of loss.

 

The room is pitched in gloom, illuminated only by a shifting, wintry light drifting in from the windows. The moon lives in the shifting planes of his skin, the hollow dips and smooth arches as he settles in beside him; above him, blue tassels drape over the dark sky, and patterns of shivering spindles and diamond lancets shatter through the glass to pattern against him with cold affection. He could be a dream, only the drowning silence enough to remind him that this is reality.

 

And when those lashes flutter to reveal the gaze beneath, bright like sparkling glass, it is with an expression he is familiar with—familiar, but still wholly incapable of deciphering. It is an expression like the night: calm, constellated. Distant and saddened.

 

The boy stretches deliciously, before turning back to him, studying him with so much visceral emotion. His features are an open book, but they are written in a language he doesn’t understand.

 

Harry must come to some kind of decision, for he leans in close, brushing his lips to his neck, against his pulse. Voldemort swallows thickly; Harry draws even closer, until his warmth tingles against his skin.

 

“Harry,” he starts, but does not know what he means to say.

 

He swallows against the boy’s lips, and then Harry is pulling away, just enough to meet his eyes. “What is it?” He whispers.

 

“Tom” He presses, when it becomes clear Voldemort does not intend to answer. His eyes search him deeply. “What’s wrong?”

 

“You really meant that, didn’t you,” he says, hoarsely, as if picking up a thread of conversation.

 

Harry’s brows furrow. “Mean what?”

 

“Earlier,” he says, the barest tremor to his voice. “When you said you…” He looks away. “Did you mean it?”

 

It speaks volumes that he can’t even say the words. For a while he wonders if Harry will call him out on it, but the boy is silent. He seems to be… regarding him, once again with an expression that he cannot read. It makes him uneasy. The feeling only grows, the longer it takes for the boy to reply.

 

Finally, Harry replies. “Yes.” He says, simply.

 

He rolls them over, until he has Harry pinned to the bed. The boy doesn’t flinch, staring up at him with a brazen look. He looks determined and unafraid; he is the only one who has ever looked at Voldemort this way. No one else has ever managed to hold his gaze so conclusively, never once looking away.

 

“Say it,” he demands, unevenly.

 

“I love you,” Harry says, intently.

 

He takes in a long, ragged breath, eyes slipping shut. “Again.”

 

“I love you,” Harry repeats.

 

A wounded noise escapes his throat, as he drops his head to rest against the hollow of Harry’s neck. His skin is warm and inviting, as are his hands, winding around him, trailing down his back. One draws to his hair, running affectionate fingers through it. “I love you, Tom,” he says, so patiently, as if those words don’t mean everything.

 

His hands are trembling, but he doesn’t notice until Harry takes one in his own, threading their fingers together. He wants to hear it again—and again, and again; forever.

 

“I love you,” he whispers, so quiet. “And I’ll say it as many times as you need me to.”

 

He cannot even bear to look up, gripping the boy so tightly there is no doubt he’ll leave bruises on his skin. He does not ask, so Harry does not say it again; it is enough to know that he need only ask, and Harry will tell him, over and over. Until maybe one day he’ll understand it—and understand just how unworthy he really is.

 

 

Harry doesn’t seem uncomfortable at all; if anything, he seems to relax into the embrace. After a while he releases the iron grip he has on the boy, but holds him just as close. Harry’s fingers continue to thread through his hair; it is actually quite soothing. So soothing, in fact, it feels far too easy to fall asleep. But perhaps this is not entirely his fault—it has been a long and arduous day, and he has spent the entirety of it tirelessly working. Eventually Harry grows uncomfortable, pinned tightly to the bed like this, and worms around until Voldemort is behind him, grabbing his hand with his own.

 

Harry turns over to face him, smiling quietly at him.

 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Harry cautions, lightly. And with that strange piece of advice, he turns back around and falls asleep.

 

.

 

.

 

Voldemort thinks nothing of this until movement stirs him from his shallow dreams. It is not from Harry, who is tucked in next to him as a long line of warmth, breathing evenly. He searches the room, but there is nothing to see but sharp angles of light, tossed into shadow. There is a quiet, almost inaudible noise, and then the door is being opened ever so slightly. A little shadow appears at the base of it, peering in.

 

As if innately sensing this, Harry stirs in his arms, lifting his head.

 

“Mum?” Comes a small, watery voice.

 

It takes a moment, but then Harry makes a vague noise of assent, pawing sleepily at his eyes. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

 

There is no response to this. After a beat, Harry sits up further. “Did you have a bad dream?”

 

This is received with a vigorous nod. “Yes,” he says, tiny and fearful.

 

There is a smile in the dark. “Do you want to sleep with me?” This is obviously what the child was waiting for, for he darts from the doorway to rush to Harry’s side and squirrels his way until he can throw his arms around Harry’s neck and hide himself there. Harry doesn’t protest this; actually, he seems to already be asleep again, as if this spectacle is so recurring he no longer bothers to exert energy into it.

 

The Dark Lord is not used to sharing his bed with others. Aside from Harry, but Harry is _his_ ; considering they share the same soul, he really doesn’t even count as another person. He has spent the night with others, surely, using them for a time or two, but never did he allow them into his own personal space. He had always found the thought disturbing and distasteful. He’s not sure how he feels about it now. Voldemort peers down at the both of them, fast asleep in his arms. He’s not sure what he feels, but it quite far from disturbed. 

 

It occurs to him that this child is his as well, that they are both his.

 

An identical set of familiar, shining eyes peer up at him from behind the nest of Harry’s hair. They blink, big and beguiling, and he finds himself at a loss for words in the face of those curious eyes. Fortunately, it appears as if an explanation is not necessary, for the child smiles slightly at him, and then ducks back into the safety of Harry’s arms.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

When he awakes the child is gone.

 

Harry throws a hand over his eyes, rubbing at them blearily as he rolls over. “Flynn?” He calls, but there is no answer.

 

When it becomes clear the young boy isn’t here, Harry sits upright. “Flynn?” He calls again. Nothing. The wizard groans, and then flops back down onto bed. He doesn’t seem all that concerned over the whereabouts of their wayward son, but Voldemort is not used to this domesticity, or the idea of having a wayward son at all, and it concerns him greatly. He leaves the bed in search of the missing boy.

 

There is a loud crash, and then the chaotic harmony of some grand orchestral piece. More crashes. He rounds the corner to find the child in question, gazing adoringly up into the screen. Every single bit of his attention is wholly fixated upon the movie he is watching—which Voldemort assumes is the one he’s so fascinated by that he refuses to talk about anything else—and true to form there is, indeed, a fat and lazy snake in his arms. The reason for its name is revealed; it is a brilliant shade of red, with a head the color of tarnished bronze.

 

Gryffindor colors, Voldemort silently despairs.

 

The boy does not seem to notice his entrance. He stares, unblinking, at the screen above him, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The morning light has revealed that he is wearing a hideous set of lime green pajamas, with the face of an overly excited frog on the hood, tossed upon is unruly curls. He doesn’t have time to form an opinion on it, for he is thoroughly distracted by the arms that wind around him, and the young man they belong to, resting his head on his shoulder. He is floored by the display of affection, unable to process it.

 

But then Harry is gone as quickly as he had come, sighing resignedly as he moves into the living room. “Flynn, what have I told you about putting the volume up too loud?”

 

The child leaps to his feet, whirling around with wide, excited eyes. He peers up, and if possible, they grow even larger. “But Mum,” he whines. “It’s Empire Day!”

 

“No, it’s Christmas.” Harry corrects, long-suffering.

 

“They’re the same day.” Flynn insists.

 

Harry seems at a loss for words. Finally, he just sighs again. “It doesn’t matter what day it is—turn it down.”

 

The child pouts mutinously, but does indeed quiet his cacophonous movie. Meanwhile, Harry turns into the kitchen, setting about for cooking breakfast with an efficiency that speaks of years of experience; pulling utensils and pans out from drawers, waving in a marching set of ingredients that bob their way from all ends of the kitchen and come to stand to attention on the counter beside him, starting up the stove—all of it at the same time.

 

“Can I open a present now?” He pleads with big eyes. He’s not sure how Harry can meet them with an unimpressed, leveled look, but the boy does not seem moved at all by the display.

 

“Fine,” he says after a moment. “But only one.”

 

Flynn whirls around to eye up the presents under the tree, expression growing serious as he dutifully examines each and every one. He deliberates on this for quite some time, brow furrowing in thought as a little moue of determination forms on his lips; less like a frown and more like a pout. But perhaps this is not all that surprising; he has a truly boggling amount to choose from.

 

But then Flynn turns to him, looking up at him with his big, familiar ( _beautiful_ ) green eyes. “Can you help me pick one?”

 

This is not a question, because already the child is tugging him by the hand and leading him towards the tree, his answer be damned. Not that Voldemort would have found the strength to deny him anyway. Upon closer inspection they appear to truly come in all shapes and sizes—some of them clearly needed magic to get the wrapping paper to stick at odd angles. He’s fairly sure one of them is some kind of dinosaur strangled in sparkling pink ribbon. Apples has returned to his post beneath the tree, cracking open one irritated, slitted eye when Flynn noisily wanders over.

 

“This one?” He tilts his head adorably, retrieving a tiny, Flynn-sized package with a gold bow on it. He brings it up to his ear and shakes it. “What do you think is in it?”

 

It sounds like a lot of small metallic objects—toys, most likely, but he has never owned a toy before, so he would not know what kind it would be. “I’m not sure,” he admits.

 

Flynn pouts, dropping it in favor of a big one, striped in electric lime and navy blue stripes. He realizes with great consternation that the Christmas gift and Flynn’s frog outfit are the exact same hideous shade of green.

 

And then the child is tearing right through the wrapping paper, gasping in delight. It’s an enormous magical train set, and like all small boys, Flynn seems utterly enamored with the idea of energy-wasting locomotives. “Wicked!” He exclaims, dropping to the carpet to begin to worm his way through the packaging.

 

“Hey,” Harry reprimands from the kitchen, without even looking up. “I said you could open it—not sit there and play with it.”

 

It’s as if Harry just dropped a homicidal ultimatum. “No! Mum, please!”

 

A lovely tingle runs down his spine at the little boy’s plea; another reminder that this child came from Harry. In the muggle world it might be a bit odd, but it only serves to remind him that Harry carried this infant for three long seasons, and the idea of Harry wide and round with his child is certainly an alluring one. That Harry chose the title speaks volumes; it’s the same as announcing to the world that he was the one to carry him—the wizarding world anyway. He could have just as easily referred to himself as the father and swept the whole thing under the rug—but he didn’t.

 

The young wizard snorts. “That doesn’t work on me,” he says, drily. “Breakfast first, okay? You can play with your toys with your cousins at the Burrow.”

 

Flynn pouts. How Harry can remain so severely unmoved at the expression is beyond him. The child has the most enchanting sea glass eyes, wide and bright upon his features; button nose, plump rosy red cheeks and a halo of tousled, cherubic hair—he uses each and every one of these traits to manipulate things to his advantage. Voldemort blinks. Just like himself at that age.

 

But as similar as they are, the two of them couldn’t be more different. For one, Tom Riddle would never have had any toys to whine over in the first place; or a darling mother like Harry to dash towards and wrap his hands around. Flynn tugs at Harry’s shirt until the boy acquiesces and lifts the child into his arms. He rests his head on his shoulder, watching his mother go about making breakfast—or rather, watching his mother’s magic make breakfast—as Harry brushes a soft kiss in his hair. Flynn giggles, noisily kissing Harry on the cheek. Some sort of game emerges from this, the little boy shrieks in laughter and hides his face as Harry goes about kissing every inch of him. Voldemort looks away.

 

He feels out of place in here, in this sunlit room, something gentle and soft overwhelming in the still air.  

 

But then Harry puts Flynn down, and the child giggles and scampers away to go bother a very unhappy snake hiding under the tree; Harry’s eyes turn to him, and the warmth has not left them.

 

The boy smiles at him, shyly. “Do you…” He swallows, faltering for a moment. “Do you want to stay for breakfast?”

 

He regards the boy with an unreadable expression. “Do you want me to?” He turns the question around. It seems as if they are discussing something far more significant than breakfast.

 

“Yes.” Harry answers, after a beat, and there is nothing but quiet conviction in his voice.

 

“Then I’ll stay.”

 

.

 

.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Dark themes: non-con/dub-con/childhood abuse/underage/sexual abuse/stockholm syndrome/unhealthy relationships  
> I can’t list them all. But there’s a lot. If any of the following are not something you want/should be reading, please don’t.


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